The Age of Fire
by LAST HORSEMAN
Summary: Stories, tales, myths, legends. Passed by word of mouth for centuries, with the exceptional few documented on paper. These are that exceptional few, the heroes imitated by children and the villains whose deeds still make humans shudder all these years later. The yarns of Lordran, told as they truly happened.
1. Prologue

_You'll die as you lived, in the flash of the blade-Iron Maiden_

Ash blew through the sky, settling on buttresses and the high layers of stone wall, towering above the cobbled pathway that passed through the mighty structure, a glorious peak rising from a near bottomless drop. The tower stood up as if it threatened to reach heaven itself, a masterful display of engineering and logistics. This tower may be the single most important structure in Lordran, and he was to be an instrumental part in the future of the kingdom, nay, perhaps even the entire world. Within that tower a sorry looking flame was burning, whimpering and spluttering when it had once been strong, the very essence of life.

The Great Lord Gwyn had chosen him, along with a hundred of others, to be a part of this crucial task. The ash crawled up his foot, slowly burying his black steel boots in white powder. The very air here was thick and heavy, a sour taste of burning constantly tickling the back of his nostrils. The smell brought back dreadful memories, moments of horror and anguish that were perhaps better contained deep within the forgotten portions of his mind.

He was there, alongside his king in the Dragon War, blessed with the long life that he was, a conflict that marked the arrival of the Lords. Where grown men had fallen to their knees and cried for their mothers, cradling their own entrails while their friends fell around them. The smell of burning, it was horrific. The bodies had been charred so black they were unrecognisable, their armour glued to their skin as their flesh was scorched and melted around the metal. Their swords had been bent and twisted, dirty black snakes of steel that littered the ground after the battles were done, so little to remind them that there had once been a life that held it.

He had been there when the walls of Lordran were raised, millions of labourers hauling great blocks of stone to build towers and battlements. He had seen Anor Londo at its greatest, with the sunlight shimmering from betwixt the spires, great golden beams that made the stones shimmer.

He was there when the Witch of Izalith had made a botched attempt to restore the First Flame and had only unleashed suffering upon the world. Monstrosities had crawled out from under the lava and dragged men he had known all his life down to their fiery depths. He had steamed and sweated in his plate, holding a behemoth of a sword specifically forged to smite the demons of Lost Izalith. It didn't matter how many limbs he severed or how many heads he had hewed, they kept pressing them, unaware of pain and unrecognising of fear. His armour had charred in the heat, the shimmering silver tarnished in those infernal pits, the majestic wings on his helm incinerated to demonic horns that made him look like a creature of nightmare. He remembered, he had felt so angry then, a raw primal fury had taken hold of him as the heat of Izalith not only burned his body but also his mind, branding him with madness of battle, he was sure of it. In the heat of the fighting, he could never tell one demon from another, the black knights he would have called his friends or the relentless animalistic monsters.

He still carried something in his heart from that day. He noticed that he was completely desensitised in combat, where he wouldn't even care for the fall of a comrade and enemies were only pawns to be run down. He was a sword, nothing more, and that almost made him sad. The air chilled for a second and it sent a shiver down his spine. The wind seemed to pick up for a moment before it returned back to eerie calmness, the ashen flakes falling on scorched brick.

He thought again to the great heroes he had known personally. Gwyndarrion, the God of War who had never lost a duel or failed to lead a force to victory, carving out his fame with the edge of his sword. Ornstein, standing proudly and standing out in his golden armour, the red plume visible even amongst ranks of soldiers. Men turned to him when their hour was darkest and he hadn't failed to deliver them from doom. Artorias had stood by his side, moving his greatsword like it was only a stick, combining both his nimble swordplay and towering shield to create a powerful warrior who could cut his way through whole armies. No one could have missed Hawkeye Gough who would send dragons tumbling from the sky from a league away. Then there was little Ciaran, who he talked to on only a few occasions. She seldom more than she needed to and was only seen when she needed to. Eerily beautiful yet she hid herself under a porcelain mask. Not that her enemies ever saw her face anyway.

The Gwyn's son and the Four Knights were certainly whom many would think of when thinking of Gwyn's forces, but that was only the tip of the sword. Havel the Rock had seemed unstoppable and was never wavered by his situation, his indomitable faith the strength from which he drew his power. Allfather Lloyd, trusted ally and uncle of Lord Gwyn. Flann was another, the Fireweaver who could conjure flames with a flick of his wrist.

The very thought of flames brought the black knight back to reality. He stood vigilantly for a while before the nothingness began to nag his mind once more, but he managed to hold his attention. Discipline was what the Black Knights were fed on, and he would not tarnish their name by being unready when his service was called into action.

The ashes began to fly a bit faster, gradually speeding up until he could hear the wind inside his own helmet. He could imagine how he must look, standing staunch while the wind fluttered around him, his cape bellowing behind him. He then remembered that the Black Knights had no capes, that they were singed off long ago. The wind grew into a gale and he had to lean forward slightly so he wasn't blown over. And then all at once the world stopped dead.

No one dared breathe until a deep hideous scream, a most awful cry of pain erupted from within the kiln and shattered the quiet like a hammer blow. Ash exploded at once all around him until it looked like he was in a blizzard. The scream died down finally, and so did the white floating freckles. He seemed to smell burning as the morning sun cast its light upon the kiln. _I must be remembering again_, he thought. But try as he might, he couldn't get rid of the smell. The sun's rays seemed all around him, swallowing him up in its glory. That's when he realised it wasn't light, but fire he saw, there was fire all around him. _Flames, _he thought, _It's the flames I can smell._

He raised his sword above his head, looking for the fool who would dare challenge a black knight of Lordran. But he could see no foe, no brazen assailant. It was then he realised the fire, the fire was his enemy and it had mounted him and pushed him down, cackling with a crackle as his flesh fused with the armour around him. The flame was so ravishing, and took him utterly by surprise he didn't even have time to call out, to warn them of the danger.

His helmet hit the ash, sinking slightly, all that was left of him rising as grey steam from his visor.


	2. The Proud Lion

_I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion-Alexander the Great_

"Stand firm!" The command was lost in the din of battle amongst screaming men and dragon fire. Ornstein forced himself to press on, trying to act as an example for his knights to follow. Despite the high possibility of death and his troops falling around him, he managed to keep a level head. If he were to panic then they should just abandon all hope. The red plume atop his silver helmet stood as a beacon for the 1st Company, pushing them ever forward as long as he remained alive. Using the lightning imbued within himself and his spear, he focussed his energy into the weapon. Where the other knights, and even Lord Gwyn would throw their lightning spears, Ornstein could use his spear as a vessel, creating a much more accurate and powerful blow.

He fired into the smoke, a hopeful shot. He swivelled and faced his knights, most still stood behind him, trampling the bodies of their fallen brothers in a desperate effort to follow their leader. The ground was smouldering now as charred corpses fell and dragon fire missed. But unfazed, Ornstein continued still, until a shadow came forward. The everlasting dragon stood on all fours, leaning low to the ground. It flashed its wings behind Ornstein, a method of intimidation no doubt. "Keep calm, Ornstein, face its wrath." He muttered to himself. He _must _hold fast, or might as well fall on his own spear.

The dragon reared up, its mouth filling with a red glow that escaped through teeth as large as zweihanders. Ornstein braced himself and rolled out the way as the reptile released its molten terror, trying to track his movements. Its blaze was catching up with him as he was unable to strafe to the dragon's side fast enough. As their eyes met, the dragon ran out of fire, its mouth rapidly cooling. Ornstein saw his opportunity and ran straight at the dragon, sliding over the undergrowth, shattering twigs and scraping moss. The dragon used the ridiculous bulk of its head to try to crush Ornstein as he slid under it. Right onto his upturned spear.

But regardless, the dragon's scales would simply shatter the glorified 'dagger on a stick', and with it the fool who had dared face the might of the everlasting dragons. At least, that's what should have happened. Instead, the spear went so cleanly through the dragon's skull that Ornstein felt barely any resistance. No one could be sure, but the expression on the dragon's face seemed one of utter shock. Electricity danced round its now still head. Ornstein emerged from under the skull, similarly surprised. Even Lord Gwyn had not slain a dragon that was still clad in its scales. Ornstein yanked out his spear by the cross, bloodying the shaft as well. He was facing his men, the surprise hidden by the silver helmet. His red plume was flowing behind him. "To Ornstein, legend among mortals!" A cry went up from a single silver knight. "To Ornstein, DRAGONSLAYER!" And then all his company raised their weapons high in the air and went screaming at the top of their lungs and charged behind their commander. Filled with the infectious confidence of his men, Ornstein leapt at the nearest dragon, spear aloft.

* * *

Izalith was utterly unrecognisable. The majority of its grand buildings simply weren't there anymore, a chasm that led only to a blazing pool of viscous lava. Ornstein shuddered at the thought of all those innocents burning, going about their daily lives only to literally have the rug pulled from under them by a fool's errand. The few buildings that remained clung to the enormous cave's wall, holding on for dear life. Artorias was at his side, his own expression hidden by his helmet. The wolf and the lion. A force that has not been stopped before.

The first and second companies of silver knights had accompanied the Four Knights and Lord Gwyn to put an end to the endless spawn of monstrosities that was emerging from Izalith. Evidently, the Witch had failed in her attempt to rekindle the flame. Why would the flame when need rekindling, when it was supposedly so healthy? None but the original three Lords have ever been to the Kiln of the First Flame, so only they truly knew how many years the Age of Fire had left. As if he knew he were the subject of thought, Gwyn approached the Four Knights who were observing the carnage from the entrance to the dwelling of the Daughters of Chaos.

Only a thin sliver of steaming earth allowed passage across a similarly steaming lake of liquid fire. "My lord," Ornstein began, giving a curt bow of his head, "The path is only two soldiers wide. A traditional invasion would be unwise, so I suggest sending waves of soldiers, each commanded by one of the Four Knights. That way, we risk fewer casualties if something were to go wrong." Ornstein surprised even himself with the clinical manner that he spoke of disaster. They would be deaths of comrades he had trained and eaten with and had created deep bonds of fellowship with, soldiers he entrusted his life to. "A good suggestion Ornstein." Gwyn noted. _However, anything said before the word 'but' might as well stay unsaid. _"But I cannot risk overreaching ourselves. We fight together or die together." It was these sort of tactics that had won the Dragon War, but Ornstein imagined they would not be so fitting here. So easy it was to say, yet he knew Gwyn would immediately rue his decision if the worst should happen.

Tentatively, in a thin line stretching all the way along the pathway, the silver knights edged forward. Ornstein was near the front, Artorias maybe forty yards behind him, Ciaran ninety and Gough, struggling to fit on the narrow causeway, at the very back with a squadron of archers. The ground hissed at their footsteps as cold steel marched upon scorching ground, a simple act of physics or a warning from the very earth of Izalith? The first knights had barely made it to the stone safety of the other side when the rumbling was heard.

Out of the lava an atrocity burst, a colossal humanoid tower of pure heat. A row of appendages limed its back, contorting in rigid motions. The look on the creature's face was one of pure agony, a sad twist of features that suggested the poor thing was in serious pain. It shook itself around, deep moans spreading across the cavern. Magma was thrown high into the air by its thrashing, covering a group of silver knights. There were screams one moment, and then they were lost, replaced by a high pitched _ssssssshhh _as metal, tissue and bone uncongealed as one. Ornstein turned to the knights in front of him, urging them to run towards the lake's edge. But that too was blocked off, a goat headed demon standing in their way. The two knights at the front braced their shields and raised their spears, poised to strike. Unfortunately, the demon's reach was longer, swinging its dual greatswords in front of it, pressing on towards the line of soldiers. With no way to flank it, the knights could only stab hopelessly at air as they were knocked into the searing flames by the beast's swipes. Now trapped on the causeway by a crazed fire monster and a rampaging demon, the knights began to fall quickly. As the demon approached Ornstein, he held his own spear at the very end, hoping that he would reach his foe before the opposite happened. The blade's end struck the demon in its boned jaw, chipping off a piece. As it paused for a moment, Ornstein seized his opportunity, grabbing the cross on his spear and plunging it deep into his enemy's abdomen. Now that it was stuck, he used all his might to flip the spear upwards, sending the demon flying, its fall broken by a short dip in the lake from which it didn't surface.

With the path now clear, Ornstein charged forward, leaving a clear way for the knights to escape the other enormous entity terrorising them. However, the archers were already firing at the fire giant, drawing its ire away from the rest of the force. It responded almost immediately, slamming a large appendage from its back at the front rows of archers, crushing them beneath the incredible weight. However, it was slow to recover and pull back from its strike; Gough seized this opportunity and led his men over the arm, sprinting with archers wrapped in his arms. They arrived to join the rest of the army, but not before another attack from the behemoth that decimated the force near the rear. They didn't even have time to regroup as Gwyn hurried them down a flight of stairs that lead to a covered walkway that seemed precariously placed on pillars that reached right into the lava. A waterfall of magma prevented the giant from following them.

The walkway, however, was packed full of the goat headed demons they had previously encountered. Before they could organise themselves the enemy was upon the silver knights, throwing tactics straight out of the window. It was now a series of duels that relied purely on the ability of the individual soldier. Ornstein was cornered by two of them, both raising their swords above their head in preparation of a ground bounding strike. But as they smashed the group, Ornstein rolled towards them and under their blades, bringing his spear up in a slash as he rose, gutting one and tearing the chest cavity of another. No sooner had he rose when he fired a bolt of lightning that hit a demon towering over a downed silver knight. It hit the monster straight in the face, tearing its skull in two as it cleaved through bone and brain and sped on up to the cavern roof. Eventually, numbers began to tell, and the duels turned into two and then three-on-ones as the knights piled into the walkway.

With the demons defeated, the knights allowed themselves a moment of respite. The silver knights boots were burnt black by the unbearable heat and Ornstein was worried that their shoes might be melted right through. He turned to Artorias, about to say something but drowned out by a large boom. The walkway shuck for a second as lava was thrown up 50 feet, raining down hellfire that couldn't reach Gwyn's army at their elevated position. The earthquake sent more fragile buildings tumbling into the unimaginably hot lake.

They decided to press on, reaching an incredibly large set of stairs, reaching all the way to the heart of Izalith. Packing together as a phalanx, the silver knights marched forward, shields raised and spears out. A wave of demons proceeded to run back up towards them. The goat demons seemed comparatively small to the horde before them, a mixture of large, hairy horned beasts with great machetes and pot-bellied creatures of varying skin colours, tall with antlers and wielding oversized hammers. The two battalions crashed head on, demons falling to spears and knights being crushed under heavy blows. In addition to their already significant mass of foes, the statues around them came to life simultaneously, like figures from an unreal nightmare, blowing fire. Gigantic millipedes emerged from under the bridge of stairs, scurrying over the bannister and into the centre of the silver knights, unleashing spews of acid spit that melted away the knight's weapons and armour.

Chaos soon erupted, with Ornstein desperately trying to keep order in the ranks. Arrows and lightning were flying overhead and punching into the centre of the demons. Artorias had ripped the leg of a horned one as Ciaran clung on to another's skull, furiously stabbing her Tracers into its brain. Bodies fell upon bodies as the knights advanced, edging closer to what seemed like a doorway. Finally, the resistance seemed to thin from their foes, but at a heavy cost. As Ornstein ripped his spear out of the last of the millipedes, the front ranks burst through the gateway, massacring the few statue demons that happened to be on the other sides. Steam was rising from between cracks in the floor, making Ornstein worried that he might roast in his own armour, sweat pouring from between the chainmail gaps. Down more stairs they continued, getting further underground and closer to the spawn of these horrors. "Not far now!" Gwyn cried, receiving a gallant roar of approval in return. Despite over half of the soldiers in the two companies falling in battle, they roused their morale, surely there could not be many more enemies after the countless they have slaughtered already?

They came to another gate of wood with iron bars running horizontally along it. But no gate could withstand the fury of Gwyn, silver knights bashing at the base with their shoulder as lightning flew at the hinges and torches setting fire to the wood. Light sneaked through cracks split in the gate, giving Ornstein a much better view of the soldiers trying to force their way into the next section of Izalith. Their whole armour was jet black, not a scrap of silver to be seen anywhere. The wings on their helmets had begun to crack and corrode, making them look like demonic horns bursting through their helmets. Other parts of their armour were being scraped off, the guards around their loins had been eroded in such a way that it looked like a set of overlapping spikes, and the points of their fingers were also sharp. _How could flame alone do all this? _The gate still clung on, fruitlessly as the centre splintered and was ripped off its hinges, sending it spinning away.

Straight into lava. There was, at most, five square yards of earth, boiling from the heat around it. The rest of the cavern was just a river of fire, illuminating the cavern as well as burning it. There was no earthen causeway of stone bridge. The path just came to an end. There was no way the attackers could progress, the place was entirely empty apart from two huge demons that looked like someone had taken the legs of a dragon and given it horns and life, creating a creature that's limbs seemed to be the entirety of its had taken an interest in them, but so far made no move. After all they had suffered, victory had been snatched away from them at the last leg. Despite their faces being covered by their helmets, the black knight's shoulders hung low and were slumped in their posture showed clearly the expression of utter defeat. Ornstein dreaded the demoralising march back that would mark the first disaster for Gwyn's army.

* * *

The cathedral was as impressive as ever, golden pillars lined with exquisitely carved statues depicting a spear wielding knight. Yet it was the same sight he saw every day, had seen every day for, what, years? Decades? Time didn't seem to pass normally, with the sun always up it was daytime constantly, and Ornstein did the same motions over and over again. The men who brought him food never said a word, he trained in silence and spent most of his days not speaking. When he did talk, it was usually to himself.

Artorias had perished in saving Princess Dusk, Gough and Ciaran seemingly with him and without Artorias' friendly jeering that only strengthened the bond between them, Ciaran's priceless expressions that spoke a thousand words she never said, Gough's thundering laugh and thought provoking proverbs he felt truly and utterly alone. But only inside. For he wasn't alone, not really.

Smough the Executioner was his fellow guardsman, his brother in arms. And that made him doubly tired. Ornstein struggled to sleep with him around, and he certainly refused to turn his back to him. He was regarded as much as an enemy as an ally due to his feelings about the Four Knights. While it was clear he respected their deeds as evidenced by his desire to join them, he also had an unrestrained hatred for his denied entry into the elite group. While he certainly had the strength and stamina, he lacked grace, and most of all a clear mind. Ornstein found it difficult to discern whether he was intelligent or not, while his grasp on speech and language was that of a child and he couldn't formulate tactics or strategy, he had a capacity for violence, his inventive methods of torture and death which he usually took out on bugs, animals or his food. Ornstein was in no doubt that he was only practicing for the real thing. And his armour, he was fascinated with it, but the design he chose confounded the dragon slayer. Not only was it impractical, but it didn't even reflect his powerful body type, adding unnecessary space around the midriff, and the visor wasn't even where the face should be.

Yet, ever loyal, Ornstein carried out his orders. If Gwyn could sacrifice to save his people and their very way of life, then Ornstein could devote the remainder of his life to defending a false representation of the gods. Indeed, he hadn't been told as much explicitly, but Gwynevere's unexplainable increase in size and her lack of coherence only cemented her falseness. While the gods may have abandoned their once great city, but remnants were here. Someone must be orchestrating this sham, and he had a pretty good idea who. While the act would be blasphemy of the highest level according to the laws of the land, it also maintained the image of the gods, upholding said laws. While a paradox, it was a means to an end, an end that would either last eternity or come crashing down if Ornstein failed his duty.

All the time, Ornstein's very being felt empty and hollow, as if he were desperately missing something. Not something, everything, Ornstein missed everything, the true sun, being outside, his friends, an Age of Fire at the height of its splendour. He couldn't shake the feeling of being used, as if he was only a barrier to an enemy, only a pawn to the gods when he had been a much respected comrade and leader. Ornstein shut away such ideas, he was loyal to Lord Gwyn's cause and would do all he could to uphold it. Even if it meant outing up with the illiterate inebriate in the hallway. While Ornstein was sure he could defend the citadel singlehandedly, disposing of Smough would not only be against his code but would also drag him down to his level. If he were to fall in battle, Ornstein would be neither happy nor sad, simply continuing where he had failed. He doubted Smough could say the same.

No friends, no excitement, no life. All Ornstein had was time, something he had lusted after before had become his very enemy. When a foe did finally step upon this hallowed earth, Ornstein would be incredibly surprised if he wasn't delirious at that time. He may kneel to this apparition, but he kneeled to Gwyn's memory, not this illusion of the once charismatic princess.

He stepped towards the balcony edge, hand on the bannister, surveying the sight he had surveyed countless times before. No, when a foe came, no matter what his own mental state would be, he would be prepared, for at his very core he was the mighty dragonslayer that had brought down swathes of the scourges of men, a proud warrior and leader of hardened soldiers, ever loyal to one cause. If he knew nothing else, he knew he would stay true to this.


	3. The Silent Hornet

_War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend-J.R.R. Tolkien_

For every hour fighting, a guard spends a hundredfold watching. The same can be said for an assassin. She has a clear target, and would prefer to kill only that target. More deaths, mean more suspicion, more alert enemies and more blocked passages. Watching, remaining patient and muffling her footsteps would be far more time effective than leaving a trail of corpses in her wake.

But when an assassin is also a soldier, then such tight spots can be negotiated. Lord's Blade Ciaran was in such a spot. While the enemy had its back to her, as she preferred, it also had a thick hide and unassailable stone armour. And a devastating offense. One slip up and she would be breathing in flames that would melt her before they burned her, accompanied by keen claws and salient teeth that would shred her and leave her to bleed out in the mud. A most undignified death. Fortunately Ciaran was not prone to slip ups.

The other Lord's Blades also lay in hiding alongside her, mere shadows on the wall. When a Lord's Blade doesn't want to be noticed, she shall not be. Their uncanny ability to cover themselves where there was no obvious cover or glide past sentries that never even knew they were there are what earned them such a notorious reputation. That and their own devastating offense.

The eight towering dragons reared up in front of them, peacocking their impressive wings of rock, revealing a deadly smile of serrated teeth that would render the poor silver knight's armour useless. They might as well have been wearing paper. They would at least benefit from the added mobility. Yet the company seemed unfazed by this terrible sight, steeling themselves against the coming attack. They quickly organised themselves into ranks, shields up and swords and spears perched on top of their defence.

Their company leader, clad in classic silver knight armour but with a cloak of azure, raised his greatsword above his head, giving the signal to raise their hands and summon their lighting spears to their side. Ciaran had decided that this was the necessary signal. She had proved to Lord Gwyn that she deserved leadership of the 'Blades along with a Lord Soul shard. She would not let that trust in her be squandered. She raised her own weapon above her head and brought it down. Without a sound, the Lord's Blade fell upon their enemies.

Flashes of gold and silver ran through the air as the female assassins attempted to lay waste to the dragons, who were now caught between two tsunamis of fury. Whenever Ciaran's golden tracer sliced its way through flesh, uncontrollable bleeding would soon follow, the wound deep and wide, seemingly beyond repair. Her less noticed black dagger would make the dragon's hide suddenly turn black and sickly, smelling of puss and gangrene. The fight would have to continue for some time longer though for these effects to become significant. The dragons can shrug off these wounds with unnerving ease, and Gwyn's battle force was struggling.

Her Lord's Blades were taking some punishment; she turned to see one of her compatriots have her throat decimated, giving Ciaran a desperate look as if she were begging her to come and save her. This was followed by surprise as she realised she could no longer intake air to continue fighting. Before she even knew she had bled out, she had just become another corpse had slumped on the deck to join those already dead or dying. Ciaran had no time to dwell on such things. Distractions cause deaths.

Almost directly after this thought, a burst of flame raced towards her. She gracefully threw herself out the way as the flame engulfed several silver knights who had not been so quick. Despite this, her robes had caught the edge of the flame, singed and smoking at the edges. She ignored this and turned to face the offending creature, which had already advanced to her position, letting out a tremendous roar that seemed to shake the ground upon which she stood. Yet still Ciaran remained undeterred, preparing herself, hoping that the dragon would try to use his strength and weight in slow and lumbering attacks.

The situation changed drastically however when two other dragons appeared at the side of their brother in arms. She edged back until her back hit an arch tree, cursing herself for not thinking two steps ahead. Cornered, the other two dragons flanked her easily. Ciaran was determined not to fall without a struggle and took a defensive stance, determined not to show her fear. A flash of gold and blue, and suddenly the remaining silver knights appeared. A quick glance allowed her to see that the other five dragons lay smote in the dirt. Even throughout this, the central dragon stood unnerved, preparing a fireball that would no doubt fry her on the spot. As the flames escaped its mouth, the company leader threw himself at her, the flames just touching the soles of his boots.

He was quick to leap to his feet, the blue cape billowing behind him like a dear friend that refused to let go. He acted as fast as the lightning he threw, spinning on his axis and plunging the sword in the dragon's still open mouth, the heat lapping at the blade that had just cut the beast a wider cavity. The knight slid the blade threw its skull, forcing it forward with inhuman strength. Weapon left dragon causing it to slump onto the ground, convulsing and dead in seconds. The knight was gracious enough to offer Ciaran a helping hand back onto her feet. She didn't even realise she was still on the ground after seeing such a tremendous display of swordplay that matched her own. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright?" was all he could manage through him struggling for breath.

"Yes…yes, thanks to you sir." She replied.

"Good. Glad to be of service." And with that he was off, rallying his silver knights back to Lord Gwyn.

Ciaran was stunned by both his actions and his abruptness. She was expecting him to boast and ask for something in return, probably being flirtatious. Such actions would have earned him a sharp punch in teeth. Instead he had said the bare minimum, and Ciaran didn't know how to react to this. Spending all her life with soldiers had meant that courtesy was something she did not experience on a day to day basis. She was at least prepared for some sexist comment. Despite herself, she quickly regained her poise, looking around to check that her own company had not seen her so caught off guard. Assembling the remainder of her Lord's Blades, only now realising how fatigued she really was, she hauled herself back to Gwyn.

Back at the rally point, Gwyn was preparing for a final assault on the dragons, waiting for all his forces to arrive before a motivational speech to spur them onto a final victory. She scoured the tattered remains of Gwyn's army to confirm that all her own troops were with her. Despite their seemingly dire exterior, they seemed ready to fight and motivated for battle. They shouted cries of confidence, assuring Ciaran that they would follow her into the den of their foes. She turned to face where Lord Gwyn was about to give his war cry when she smacked right into something hard.

"Oh, so sorry. Please accept my apology." An oddly familiar voice said. She looked up and saw her saviour from before, blue cape tattered and singed.

"Please sir, the fault is mine." Ciaran managed to say, realising the short odds of meeting this man again so soon. "I wasn't looking where I was going." Only now did she appreciate his physique away from the heat of battle. He stood a good two feet taller than Ciaran, with shoulders that heaved as he drew breath. She imagined he needed all that muscle to swing his greatsword with the grace he did.

"If you say so, but I apologise nonetheless." He replied, and turned to move away.

"Sorry," Ciaran called after him, "But I believe it is just courteous that I know your name sir." It just seemed right to know the identity of the man who had risked himself for her.

"Sir Artorias, my lady. Proud knight to Lord Gwyn." This time he dropped to one knee and removed his helmet. His face was handsome, with both boyish and hardened qualities, accompanied by short black hair that curved slightly on his fringe. "And you, my lady?" He said as he got up, never once forgetting his manners.

"Lord's Blade Ciaran. And thank you once again for saving me." Artorias responded with a quick grin.

"Stay safe my lady. It would be an awful shame for thou to die after all that trouble." And then he was gone, disappeared in the forest of silver.

* * *

The training room's high ceiling made sure to echo every movement she made, Tracers blazing as she cut through the air. Her sparring partner was struggling to keep up, but not failing. This was an exercise as much for Via1 as herself. A left and low slash to her knee followed by an upper cut with her right hand. She was gradually beating Via back. Ciaran then put in a lazy right stab which her partner parried. _Good. Raise her confidence_. Via was now holding her own, even coming back with her own barrage. But Ciaran feinted with a diagonal move catching her off guard. She then swept her feet from under her, knocking her flat on her back. As soon as Via hit the floor Ciaran was down with her, Gold Tracer at her throat. "Seems you win again Ciaran."

"Only just. Your footwork is improving." She offered her hand which the other assassin took and used it to stand up.

"It wou-" Before Via could finish her sentence, heavy footsteps pierced through the air. They both looked towards the amply large door as Knight Artorias stepped into the training room. Ciaran had been so caught up in her training that she must have stepped over her time. The training room was designed to be communal, and indeed was often used like this by the other knights. But Ciaran preferred to train in solitude or with just one other Lord's Blade. Training with others made her feel far too self-conscious. Assassins weren't meant to be seen after all. He gave an acknowledging nod. "Good morning Blades." He said rather jovially.

"Good morning Sir Artorias." Ciaran said in an even tone. Via didn't say anything and just smiled shyly. She gathered her stuff before hurrying out of the room, but trying to not make it seem like she was hurrying.

"Ornstein, you're delaying everyone." She heard Artorias call out behind her.

"Artorias, you move with too much purpose. There is not always a need to rush." The red headed captain shouted back.

"That would explain your considerably lacking performance of late. 'Slow as shit' doesn't quite cover it." Ciaran heard Ornstein make a retort which was lost as she moved away. Now that she knew Artorias much better, he was much more uncouth in his speech to his friends, formality was saved for his superiors and strangers. It was odd how his speech could be so polarised. It didn't mean he was rude, far from it, despite his harsh language he never used it harshly, if anything it raised their spirits. The four of them were close, with Artorias and Ornstein constantly needling each other, while Gough laughed at the remains or caught in the middle. It was all good fun though, they respected each other's abilities and fought for each other in conflict, and in the end no four people could have known each other more closely.

Back in her quarters, Ciaran wondered what she could fill the rest of her day with, as there were no duties for her to do. She ended up staring blankly at the library's extensive collection of books for what seemed like hours. "Bored, Ciaran?" She found Artorias in the doorway, a lopsided grin on his face. "I was about to spend some time with Sif. You're free to join us." Ciaran was about to say no, but the thought of doing nothing gave her an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She needed to be occupied with something, so she agreed. They ended up in Anor Londo's gardens, Sif bounding off to chase some birds pecking at the ground, sending them scattering into the air. "We sometimes go to Oolacile." Artorias began, "But the trek is rather far, so we save it for special occasions. You could join us again sometime."

"Um, yes, I suppose so. Thank you Artorias." She mumbled. Ciaran felt slightly awkward, with Artorias fussing over Sif she could only watch and feel like a spare part. It was clear that Artorias cared greatly for Sif, fussing over minor smudges on his coat and specks of food in his teeth. Sif responded with a pounce onto his chest, slathering his face with licks. Ciaran edges a bit closer, drawn by Sif's boundless energy. He soon turned his attention on her, giving her the same treatment as Artorias. It was only now she realised how big he was; compared to Artorias he seemed like a normal dog. But Ciaran could now see he was as tall as her, and if Artorias was to be believed, still a puppy. "He seems to like you." Artorias noted.

Ciaran had to admit, she liked him too. Sif then lay down in her lap, which was actually quite painful as he was probably heavier than her. She patted him none the less. Artorias came over and picked him up, his hand brushing past Ciaran's as he grasped Sif under the belly. For some reason, she suddenly got chills that ran right the way up her spine. It made her relax and drop her guard, but also a bit uncomfortable. She didn't like not being in control. Even though she was in the company of a friend, she still kept herself guarded, a mental block that restricted her from showing weakness. She excused herself and made her way back to the keep. Maybe she needed to do some more training.

* * *

Over time, Ciaran found herself spending more time with Artorias, seemingly by accident. She even took him up on his offer of time at Oolacile. Of course, Sif came too. He spent most of his time splashing in various puddles, and chasing a rather large leopard that seemed to be stalking them. Ciaran wasn't worried, it seemed to be content to just watch them from a distance. She of course had been to Oolacile before, but never explored it. Also, never with company, particularly the large and smiling man next to her.

Despite her recent interactions with Artorias, Ciaran didn't feel comfortable around him. She found herself studying him too long, against her better judgement usually. She didn't feel in control. Artorias' shirt allowed her go see the top of his neck, revealing a rather brutal looking scar. It was still purple in places, running from the left side of his neck to below the neckline of his top. Without really thinking, she reached out and touched it. It made Artorias rigid, and she was worried she had hurt him. His body language didn't suggest discomfort, just puzzlement. He gave her a confused look. But still she continued, running her hand down it, softly, tenderly, in a way she didn't even know she could. She held her finger just above his chest. Neither said a word for a while. Ciaran broke the silence.

"Does it hurt?" She asked, lifting her eyes so they met his.

"No, not really. It's the least I deserve, bugger caught me off guard. It matters not, scars are tokens to collect for a warrior. Shows that he is devoted his cause."

"Or she. But it also means you're too headstrong." Ciaran noted.

"Then it is a wonder you are not covered in them. But we wouldn't want anything to spoil thine beauty now, Ciaran." Artorias said, a broad smile developing on his face. Now it was Ciaran's turn to be surprised, this was the first time he had even mentioned her appearance, the joke however was very normal of him. Judging by his smirk, he meant it purely as a compliment and wasn't asking for anything else. They sat in silence for a little while more. She was about to open her mouth and say something when Artorias leapt up, giving Sif a treat. He almost took his whole hand with it. Artorias only found this amusing, and threw him a stick.

When they returned to sunlit Anor Londo, Ornstein approached them at the Great Hall's doorway. "Several Wyverns have been spotted on the wall's edge. There nest is believed to be in a rocky outcrop that's too close to the wall for some of the citizens. It seems we're going on a hunting trip" Ciaran was glad for the work. The four of them were finally up and moving again as compared to the horrible sense of inactivity that had hung over them recently. Ornstein raced off ahead trying to track the location of the Wyvern's nest, glad to be back dragon slaying. Gough was not far behind him, taking in the scenery around them. Ciaran thought there wasn't really much to take in, while the steep rock sides were impressive, it was just rock. There was little vegetation to note.

A screech suddenly was heard further ahead down the path that pierced through the air as harshly as one of Gough's arrows. She saw Ornstein in cover behind some of the rocks, while Gough hung back at a corner in the path, there weren't really any other hiding spots for one so big. She joined Artorias behind his own stack of rocks. He was about to break cover to get to Ornstein's position, leaning forward, preparing to sprint. Ciaran's hand then make a grab for his wrist, coiling around it gently, making the littlest effort to pull it back. Artorias turned to face her, giving a confused look she had seen before. Ciaran had surprised herself, the action seemed instinctive and as soon as she had done it, she regretted it.

"The beast is in the pathway." She urged trying to cover for herself. "Wait for Ornstein to come to us." Sure enough he did, edging backwards carefully and then making a short sprint to their side of cover. "Three wyverns, one drake. We three will take the wyverns, while Gough keeps the drake occupied. Then we all move in together."

"We await your command." Artorias responded, keen as Ornstein to get this going. We stuck close to the rocks, slowly coming forward, closer to the reptiles. Their nest was simply a hole in a cliff face, a pile of charred bones of various creatures acting as stairs. It smelled awful, a mixture of rot and damp. Ornstein crouched down, then signalled with his hand to charge forward. As he did, his whole body seemed to zoom away, spear pointed forward. He caught the first wyvern in the jaw, ripping away some of his teeth. Ciaran and Artorias ran after him to support him.

A wyvern fired a bolt of lightning at Ornstein that seemed to do next to naught. Artorias capitalised on its outstretched neck and focus on Ornstein, leaping up and slicing the beast's head clean off. Ciaran had reached her target, deftly flicking her head out the way of a lunging bite. Rolling forward, she planted her Tracers into its comparatively soft belly, ripping upwards almost to its neck. It hit the ground heavily. All three readied themselves against the drake, whose had been pinned down by three arrows, one in its wing and two through its chest.

Its breathing was ragged and desperate. Another arrow sailed over and embedded itself in the drake, just below its slender neck. Ornstein delivered the killing blow, gutting it as blood and foul smelling hot air escaped from the new fissure. Ciaran allowed herself to relax, their job now done. "I believe a trip to the tavern is in order." Ornstein chirped, clearly glad to have put his dragon slaying tool to good use.

"I couldn't agree more." Artorias returned, clearly preparing for another drinking contest. Ciaran didn't really now the score line, but it seemed to her that both returned as bad as each other.

"I think it unfair to drink all the owner's stock." Gough added "But I shall join you none the less." It was evident that the large man could drink more than all three combined, but he steered clear of alcohol. He didn't really like the taste. They all laughed, walking back jovially. Artorias then spun round to Ciaran. "Thou hast been awfully quiet. Wouldst thou join us?" Ciaran also kept away from alcohol, she preferred to stay in command of herself. But she also didn't want to be left out. "Yes Artorias, I believe I will."

She sat at the bar alongside Artorias. She hadn't even finished her first drink, while he had nearly downed his third, but seemed fairly coherent. Ornstein was having a knife throwing contest with a villager, his bright red hair making him stand out among the gathering crowd. Gough had to sit outside, as the tavern couldn't accompany his ample frame. Yet he was still happy, the laughing giant causing strangers to take detours away from him. "Do you think we could go back to Oolacile some time? It was very pleasant there." She finally asked Artorias, who had ordered another drink.

"Of course Ciaran. I'm sure Ornstein would love to come as well." This was not the answer she had hoped for.

"Couldn't it just be us two again, and Sif of course? I enjoyed that. I fear Ornstein would not enjoy the tranquillity that much." He took a moment to consider before he came up with an answer.

"If you prefer." He replied. Before anything more could be said, Ornstein came and slapped Artorias on the shoulder.

"Only ale my friend? Not up for a contest?" He gave Artorias a smile that screamed arrogance.

"Drinking with you isn't a contest Ornstein, you're on the deck after three seconds." Everyone else in the tavern saw this as a challenge, the noise and intensity upped considerably. Ciaran took this as her cue to exit, as Ornstein cried "Right, you pansy arsed dog. Prepare thyself!" She was beginning to feel rather tired anyway, despite it being early evening; the sun was beginning to set and cast shades of orange across the sky. She realised Gough was no longer by the doorway, and began to wonder where he could have gotten to.

"Ha ha, Pharis, that makes 4-3. Would next one wins appeal to thee? Now we shall finally see who is the better archer!" A booming voice echoed. She had no doubt Gough could be heard in Astora. It seemed she would be making her way home by herself. She would prefer to walk home as the air began to chill, deciding she had no need for a carriage. She had barely gotten a hundred yards down the road when a gravelly voice confronted her. "Not safe for a woman all alone at this time. Especially one so expensively dressed."

Four men had detached themselves from the edge of the shadows. She had noticed them of course, but simply assumed they were tired drunks who didn't know which way was up. She didn't respond, threats would make no difference to their intentions. In the light she could see they were wearing ragged clothing that had probably never seen a wash. In their hands were crude clubs.

Humans. They sent an inadvertent shiver up her spine. She had never hid her disgust for them. They faults were many: they had both the capacity for limitless good and evil. They had not the disparity that represented the Age of Fire, they were just so…neutral. But the worst thing was their greed. All humans seemed to have something ebbing away inside them, causing them to never be satisfied with what they have. The Four Kings were an excellent example. Rulers of a city in mighty Lordran, and yet they still hungered for power. They had destroyed countless lives, all because they were human.

While this moved Gough to pity, it moved her to scorn. She did not have her weapons with her, but she was confident she could make short work of them regardless. In the end, short was an understatement. They lay on the ground with broken bones and torn ligaments, unable to match the speed, grace and power of her dodges and strikes. The one that had spoken to her was being held up against the wall they had hidden by, Ciaran lifting him right off his feet and strangling him. As the life began to leave him, she realised it was neither her job nor correct to execute this man.

Whenever she killed, she always believed she had killed for a greater purpose, for a greater good that would eventually save people. There was no good in killing this man. She managed to make herself let go as he hit the floor unconscious. Ciaran continued on her way without a sound.

Artorias had decided that a trip to Oolacile was in order, to clear his head of yesterday's disastrous hangover. "Don't you regret your ridiculous contests now?" Ciaran asked him, perplexed as to why someone would engage in such heavy drinking. "It was all worth it though." Artorias replied, "I beat Ornstein. He denied any knowledge of remembering any such thing." He grinned with pride at the thought of beating his closest friend.

They followed Sif who had bounded through some undergrowth, revealing a small glade in the forest, with a small rock pool. Sif immediately threw himself at it, yapping and panting with glee. Artorias and Ciaran simply sat there and watched him for a while. Ciaran sensed that he felt a bit tense, which was odd as he looked so relaxed walking down here. He seemed content to just watch Sif in silence, which Ciaran promptly broke. "Don't you like spending time with me Artorias?" The question was very abrupt and caught him by surprise.

"Of course I like spending time with you." He said, giving her an incredulous look that said such a suggestion was ridiculous. "You're a very close friend and a great person. Moments with you are never wasted, just as being with all four of you makes me feel complete. Like we're a family." Ciaran felt a little more confident.

"And families can tell each other anything, can't they Artorias?" She began to feel like a small child asking a wise father irrelevant questions and it made her feel ridiculous. She had usually been so self- sufficient, and here she was hanging on this man's every word.

"Of course" Again sounding like such a thing was a given. She leaned her head closer into him, peering into his blue eyes, the same colour as his armour's cloak. She noted the small dent running vertically down his chin, another crevice of scar that marked his stubble. She was about to lean further into him, she had already placed a hand on his chest, and wanted him to place a hand on her, for him to lean in closer, show that he would return her feelings. "Are you feeling tired Ciaran?" He gave her another puzzled look. She simply ignored the question, still getting ever close to him. Instead, he broke the moment and stood up. Sif took this as a signal to return, and raced back, covering Ciaran and Artorias in water. She was still on the ground, utterly confused by what had just happened. Artorias broke her thoughts. "I should probably go back and prepare."

"Prepare?" Was all Ciaran could manage, not believing that this series of events was happening. He had already exercised today, she was sure.

"Yes, you looked quite bored." Bored? Had Artorias lost his mind? "I've been having uneasy thoughts, feelings. Premonitions. I fear our enemies are closing in Ciaran, and I will not stand idly by while this happens." _Why would he not be prepared?, _was all Ciaran could think. He seemed as alert as ever. Can he not realise that he is fighting for freedom and peace, and by chaining himself to duty is he restricting himself of the cause he is fighting for? She just sat on the ground, helpless. A realisation hit her, that despite her feelings and infatuations, Artorias was totally oblivious to them. She realised how little he rested, tavern drinking was all that occasionally broke up his routine of a crusade against evil. He didn't feel the same way about her, there was no room for her in his life. At that, she just wanted the world to swallow her up.

* * *

"Artorias?" Her voice echoed around the arena. It felt so empty, the only movement the dark clouds in the sky. The pale stone was moss ridden, with odd splashes of blue and black all over the place. This was not the Oolacile she remembered. A heavy clanking could be heard, as Artorias emerged from the doorway opposite the arena. "Artorias!" She squealed, so happy to see him alive. If only just. His azure cape was torn and frayed and his armour was missing pieces. His steps were heavy and laboured, as if he were carrying a great weight, and he seemed slightly taller as well, but she couldn't be sure of this. She also noticed his left arm hung limp at his side. "By the Lords, you look awful. Let m-" She said stepping towards him, but stopped as Artorias gave her a dead stare, as if only suddenly realising she was there.

The sight sent chills down her spine. He tilted his head to one side at her creating an awful crack that resounded around the stadium. There was brief moment of silence between the two. A deep moan that seemed to come from the very earth itself caused her to back away, and at this Artorias pounced. He was relentless, slashing and hacking at her with no sign of fatigue. Ciaran barely had time to lift her blades and move away from the onslaught. _Please Artorias, it's me_. He made an overhead slash, his greatsword landing inches away from her, embedding on the dirt. They were face to face now, and she could see blood mixed with inky blackness dripped from him and what sounded like a weak cough.

She couldn't believe that this could have happened, but didn't know what to think. It was just too appalling to think. _Please, Artorias. You're the Abyss-Walker, this can't happen, please…please…no_. She had tears streaming down her face behind her mask. Everyone felt like they were made of acid, tearing down her face. He suddenly leaped into the air, nearly as high as the wall of the coliseum. Surely that was impossible. Artorias could leap, but this was just impossible. He fell to the ground at incredible speed. She dodged, but somehow he tracked her while falling. The sword buried itself, making the smallest of cuts on her flailing boot. He simply lifted his greatsword out of the floor, as if it were cloth, not stone that he had just skewered. She raised her Tracers, but another powerful strike broke her guard, sending her arms down by her side. He followed with a pommel strike to the face, that she was sure had broken her nose. On her back, she knew she was gone.

To be killed by the man she loves…No, the man she loved. This was not Artorias. He raised the blade, and plunged it towards the ground. It hit the stone, going right through it, level with her knee, between her spread legs. The beast lifted its head, and Ciaran thought she heard gagging, and then crying. She managed to scramble away, Not-Artorias apparently unwilling to follow her out of the arena. That was the worst thing. Not that he was dead, not that he was a mere meat puppet, but that he was still in there, suffering, desperately trying to restrain the Abyss within him. He was what he had tried to kill, and that was the ultimate cruelty.

All these years later, and Ciaran still kneels by his modest headstone, growing larger with each passing decade. She has seen Oolacile turn into Darkroot Forest and heard the earthquake that created the Valley of Drakes. The only time she left was to obliterate that fool that dared take Artorias' ring. She prays for most of the day, praying and hallucinating. Remembering experiences, imagining possibilities. She was destined to stay here for eternity. She had considered joining Artorias, but that's not what he would have wanted.

She was unarmed anyway. All she carried where the clothes on her back and the soul in her hands. _My dear, dear Artorias_. Maybe some grave robber will finish her off. She is surprised to see she no longer cares. She returns to her praying, desperately trying to remember the sound of his voice. The way he walked, his crude jokes and odd way of speaking formally and informally simultaneously. She thinks of this, while she hears the howling in the distance. At least she is not alone in her mourning for her dear Artorias.

* * *

**Note: Via-Made up Lord's Blade**


	4. The Stoic Wolf

_Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you-Fredrich Nietzsche_

Men were screaming. Women were screaming. Children were crying. New Londo was in the grip of nightmare, a nightmare that had crawled from below the ground to wreak havoc upon all life. The scene was utter chaos as everyone scrambled over everyone else to escape a dire and painful death. Oddly, Knight Artorias felt rather calm, a reassuring beacon amidst the destruction. Beacon was not even an understatement. Towering over the human residents, his black plume elevated him further, silver and azure that walked forward slowly and surely towards the source of the panic. Artorias tried to radiate his relaxation to the fleeing citizens, hoping that they would think he represented a haven of safety and thus the citizens would calm down. There was no such result. However, he still marched forward, Sif in tow, sniffing the ground and making sour faces. Usually people are put off by the great wolf, but evidently the cause of panic was a great enough threat to make these people drop everything and run.

Artorias came to a great gate as the crowd thinned, the gate was just being sealed and barred, heavy chains being lifted and pulled taut across it. He noted several people in the distance crying out for them to leave it open. It seems the guards cared not for stragglers if the risk was judged this great. "Hold the gate." Artorias cried, deepening his voice and filling his voice with authority, not so loud but as effective. Several of the guards saluted but most carried on or simply glanced up. Artorias realised he needed to push his point further. "I AM SIR ARTORIAS," he bellowed, making some of guards flinch in surprise, "SERVANT OF GWYN AND MEMBER OF THE FOUR KNIGHTS. MY COMMANDS WILL BE HEARD, AND THOU SHALT OPEN THIS FUCKING GATE!" This time the guards obliged, but not without grumbling. "They're coming you bloody fool! If we open this gate, then we also abandon our posts. I'm not staying to die." This caused gasps and mutterings of shock from the other guardsmen. A soon as the speaker had closed his mouth he seemed to realise his error and saw his confidence drain away. "If you want to abandon your duty, then go, leave your friends. You may save your lives. But you will not save your honour." The guards seemed to be discussing their fate while Artorias moved towards three men in crimson robes, who seemed to be in charge of the situation. Their colours identified them as healers. "They will charge for this weak point and not stop until they are through. Their numbers are near inexhaustible." The tallest of the healer's stated.

"I must agree with Ingward." The one next to him said. "We must think of the people already here, will we throw their lives away? What will protect them?" All three of them nodded.

"I fear words are wasted on him Yulva. He is clearly set on a plan that will doom us all." The third one spat.

"I will take the fight to them alone then. Healers art supposed to be known for their hospitality, art they not?" Artorias wasn't going to let these men detract from the matter at hand.

"You haven't seen the horrors I have seen, _knight_." He sneered the words at Artorias. "The dragon war may have been brutal, but the soldiers knew what killed them. They weren't tortured to death in mere seconds." This man clearly had no knowledge of the dragon war, but Artorias wasn't here to swap war stories. It was obvious that his experience had affected the man.

"We will help you in any way Sir Artorias. Do what you deem best." Ingward butted in, earning a dark glance from the unnamed healer. Artorias outlined his plan quickly, emphasising the importance of keeping the citizens within the second wall. He then moved through the gate that had been left ajar. The guards had fled after all.

New Londo was actually quite grand, particularly impressive for a human city. It didn't have grand spires, turrets or minarets. Its style was square and strong, thick walls with square towers that had balconies and domes. Rather than the clear, outlined design of Anor Londo, these streets wound and slithered, a jumble of stairs and buildings that leaned over each other. It was packed tighter than the city of the gods, and less clean than it as well. But impressive none the less. As he neared the centre, the ground began to be enveloped in a thick black mist, only at ankle height.

It was then Artorias noticed a gaunt hooded figure, dressed all in black. Artorias called out to it, saying there was safety behind the second wall, and only just realised that Sif was nowhere to be found. The figure turned, unsheathing a sword. Its face was blank white, with hollow eyes that showed nothing but emptiness. The figure charged at the tall knight, a strong thrust that Artorias easily sidestepped, capitalising on his over extension. His greatsword pierced the figure at his side, going right through him and emerging on the other side. To his shock, it only turned its head towards him, pushing itself _further down _his greatsword. Grabbing the sword's hilt, it was only inches from Artorias now.

He could smell its putrid breath. Its hood flicked up to reveal a horror of a face; the crooked, yellowed teeth and cracked bone of a skull, flesh still grasping to its cheeks. The torso seemed to be its rib cage, fused with the fabric and scraps of armour that it once used to wear. Its left hand lit up with a bright white light as it pulled the fist back, preparing for a hook. Artorias, regaining his composure, simply twisted the blade already inside it which seemed to do the trick as it let out a deep moan and fell limp.

Artorias then felt a warm feeling on his leg and saw Sif panting and nuzzling him. He knelt down and stroked his head, while Sif dropped a black scrap at his feet. "Don't go running away again boy. Treasure perhaps? For me?" Picking it up, he saw it was similar to the rags that the skull knight had been wearing. Sif then tugged at his ankle with his mouth, trying to get Artorias to follow him. He led him through a narrow street that still had washed clothes on lines, up a spiral staircase that edged round a circular tower. It went on for several stories before climaxing at an upper level of the city. A sword was lying on the floor which Artorias realised was Sif's: he had dropped it so he could make it back to him quicker.

Almost as soon as Sif was equipped another skull knight rushed them from the shadows. As a double team, he was no match for them, Artorias cleaving his arms right off as Sif distracted him and sawed at his waist. He had mixed feelings about fighting so dishonourably, but when so many lives are at stake his priority should be purging the city.

Another hallway, a tight spiral staircase and three more dead enemies later, they came to where Sif was pointing. The tower stood well above the rest of New Londo, with only a narrow walkway and a similarly small doorway as its features. The black fog was much thicker here, it even began to leap up at his knees, almost sentient like, making occasional jumps like tentacles reaching out for Artorias. He took tentative steps towards the doorway, seeing torn hinges and shards of wood lying around it. He turned around and urged Sif to stay. Despite a whimper, he obeyed.

Inside the tower there were only leaky walls and a single staircase. He edged onwards, slowly but surely. The wall was slippery yet sticky, no friction until it came off and attached itself to your hand. Artorias remained wary, expecting a surprise attack, watching his surroundings. It nearly killed him. The stairs came to an abrupt end, leading only to a fall into nothingness. "Artoriassssssss…" A voice seemed to call from deep in the blackness. The fog was so thick now, it looked like water. In fact, it was raising like water as well. It had now wrapped itself around his legs, making a sudden jump for his thighs. It was the most pain he had ever felt. His very core was freezing cold, as if his bones had turned to ice, particularly around his legs. But he didn't turn numb or lose sensation, instead the pain seemed to heighten.

Then his skin. It was if he were standing in a vat of boiling oil, his skin felt as if he were melting. He tried to move away but his legs refused to cooperate. He was stuck in place, arms flailing as he moved about one hundredth of his normal speed, like walking on treacle. Sif sensed his peril and began barking down the stairs, but he didn't come down the stairs. The darkness was rising now, slowly, but still nearly by his waist. "Well Knight Artorias. Failed at the first hurdle have we?" The voice was followed by a black bulbous head and long thin emerging from the gloom. Its eyelids parted to reveal a pair of large red eyes, with beady slits for pupils. He knew this creature…no, this one seemed different, more…

"Greetings" The head announced.

"_Darkstalker_" Artorias hissed the words. This heinous creature was surely his enemy, trawling the Abyss for unwary victims.

"I see my reputation proceeds me. No doubt my good friend Frampt has told you of me." Darkstalker Kaathe began. Artorias refused to respond, which wasn't difficult with all the pain he was suffering. He was determined not to let his anguish and fear show. His bones grew colder and skin grew warmer. He was panting now, making sounds not too dissimilar to stepping into a bath that's far too hot, only much, much worse. It was all Artorias could do to keep conscious. "However much I am enjoying this conversation, we have very little time."

"T-t…time…?" Was all Artorias could manage.

"Why my boy, can you not tell? You are dying, and I fear your time may be up soon. I can however save you. All I need is your allegiance." His smile seemed to spread wider as his eyes lit up.

Artorias could only scoff. "You'd better let me die then, it-t-t…" His speech was lost amidst the chattering of his teeth and laboured breathing.

"Hmm," Kaathe contemplated. "I'm not sure your friends would agree. Your wolf pup is also in my grip. And am I to believe you would forsake New Londo to the Darkwraiths over pride?"

"D-darkwr…p-p-p-pride?" The dark had run over his stomach making him feel as if he was about to throw up.

"I am not asking for you to be my servant. Simply swear to me, and you may do as you please. The Abyssal energy will not do as much as scratch your skin." Artorias was desperate to resist, but Kaathe's demands also made no sense. Swear on what? Swear to what? What could the Darkstalker possibly be getting out of this deal? But the serpent was right, and time was running out. He could not fail the others, and this is a decision he would have to reprimand later. The Abyss had reached his neck, dark motes were dancing before his eyes as he began to black out. "I-I-I ssssw…"

"Very well." Kaathe's smile had spread wide enough to encompass his whole face. And then he was gone. The murk dissipated before Artorias' eyes as a gold ring materialised on his finger, and jewel with the very essence of the Abyss at its centre. Sif throttled down the stairs to meet him, checking over his whole being for any sign of abnormality. It was as if the whole ordeal never happened. Artorias peered down the seemingly endless chute from which Kaathe had emerged, and then at the ring on his finger. He murmured a quick prayer and readied his equipment. Knight Artorias leapt.

It was almost a day later that Artorias returned with a ragged Sif in tow. The second wall had seen no action, the gate still carelessly open. Yulva was the first to greet him. "Sir Artorias! It is good to see the Darkwraiths failed to take thee! Pray tell, what is the situation?"

"The Four Kings have retreated back into the chasm, the Abyss contained in a tower. I scoured the Abyssal floor slaughtering Darkwraiths in their very home. But it was not enough. Legions of them are pouring into the city as we speak. Some of them do not stay dead, we must prepare for an attack." Artorias was quick to note that they were in no such condition to withhold an assault, the eerily deserted streets showing no sign of capable fighters. Towards the edge of the city, he could hear refugees desperately trying to force their way out of the damned urban sprawl to relative safety.

Before a plan could be made, a vicious and blood curdling cry was heard far within the city centre, deep and guttural that barely sounded human. Everyone, including the struggling refugees stopped and stared towards its point of origin, completely silent. _Thud…Thud…Thud…ThudThudThud_. Leaping up to the battlements, the sight made him turn cold. Uncountable amounts black shapes working their way towards the gate. Artorias leapt back down, putting up his greatshield and pressing against the gate, Sif joining him, leaning with the thick wooden door. The healers prepared their catalysts. And suddenly the gate erupted.

Darkwraith after Darkwraith poured through the now open passage, the heavy gate ripped right from the wall. Artorias extended his arm and spun a whole three hundred and sixty degrees, decapitating an almost perfect circle of Darkwraiths. He let the next wave charge at his greatshield, adsorbing the impact and then pushing back with his own force. The now stunned creatures were easily destroyed. Another Darkwraith had emerged behind him, trying to bring his blade down in the armour gap by his neck. Fortunately, Sif charged in a removed the fiend's wrist, still clasping its sword. A woman's scream broke the din of battle as he swivelled to see a swarm of Darkwraiths slithering up the battlements and over the houses, making their way towards a stockpile of humanity. "Artorias we must-" Ingward began, now on the safety of higher ground.

But Artorias' sense of duty had already kicked in, and he was already moving. Knowing that the helpless humans would be decimated, he charged for the nearest building, Sif cutting a clear path for him. Artorias felt a blow to his left knee, but he carried on regardless. Straddling a fence, he clasped the house's roof and pulled himself up. He trailed the monsters along the rooftops, swiping down those he caught up with. Reaching the end of the tenements, a lone Darkwraith was terrorising the nearest humans, swiping its sword and flailing with its glowing hand. Using all his energy, Artorias pounced, reaching for the clouds. He came down upon the Darkwraith, sword pointing the earth, just as it turned to see its fate.

The sword almost vaporised the ex-knight, sending giblets and remains of shattered armour flying in all directions, covering the citizens in gore. Artorias was quick to recover, and decided to ascend a level to survey the massacre and see where he was needed most. Reaching a crumbling stone buttress, with Sif scrabbling alongside him, he surveyed the scene, careful not to slip on the loose edge. It was not encouraging. More screams and Artorias looked directly below him, more Darkwraiths throwing themselves at the survivors. Then the floodgates were loosened.

* * *

Anor Londo truly was a sight to behold in the sunlight. Dark spires rose high from gold enamelled towers, vast walkways and pillars dotted beside them. The whole city seemed to radiate luminescence, a representation of the awesome power of the gods. The Four Knights were supping in relative solitude, their duties meaning that they missed the communal meal. Artorias had decided on two fresh fish today, with lashing of vegetables and seeded bread, all served on a spotless silver plate. He took a moment to pause his feasting a survey the people sitting with him.

Ornstein was on his right, shocking red hair falling just above his shoulders. Artorias had great respect for the man, as Ornstein did for him. They had been brothers in arms from the start, a deadly duo that had never been defeated. Ornstein was proud however, and was more likely to follow up on slights and insults than the rest of them. He was also unswervingly loyal, taking Gwyn's word as law, no matter what the costs or effect on his own pride, and in battle, Ornstein had proved himself a capable commander earning him the captaincy of the Four Knights. Artorias actually found it unnerving how calm he was in chaos, head utterly clear and focussed allowing him to execute attacks and lead manoeuvres with precision and incredible speed. His spear work was unmatched, able to employ the use of thrusts and slashes, always managing to find gaps in the enemy's defences. Not that it was required, his spear was so keen that it could go straight through most armours.

Gough sat at the left edge of the table, sitting cross legged on the floor, the charred carcass of a whole cow in his lap. Gough was always the most cheerful of their group, and one of the most intelligent. He seemed to defy the trend that followed most giants, often offering proverbial and philosophical analogies of almost anything. He would occasionally try his hand at crafts as well, becoming good friends with the blacksmith and would chat away about crafting all day if time permitted it. While the other three simply carried out their tasks, Gough would always contemplate them, considering every view point and the implications of their actions of everyone. Ultimately, it was his archery he was famous for, being able to hit the centre of a target from when others seemingly couldn't even see it. His friendship with Pharis was also well known, Gough calling him a paragon of humankind. It was ironic that despite his appearance, Gough was the friendliest and most approachable of them all, always with things to say.

Finally, Ciaran sat opposite him, cutting her food delicately with precise cuts that created morsels of perfect shape. She was probably the least notorious of the Four Knights, a state of affairs that Artorias imagined she wished to keep. She spoke only what needed to be said, but had an acid tongue when provoked that have had people cowering from her words alone. Her movements seemed to go entirely unnoticed, making no sound and leaving no tracks. These abilities, coupled with incredible agility and blinding attack speed made her a force to be reckoned with even when she could be seen. Her position as a female warrior seemed to cause no qualms for her, she never felt the need to prove herself or take part in lavish tournaments of skill. If anything, it meant her enemies often underestimated her, much to their despair.

Artorias popped the last scrap of potato into his mouth and stood up from the table. A young boy was at his side almost immediately, taking his silverware and carrying it to the kitchen. Moving through the doorway, past to guarding silver knights and into a high ceiling corridor. He was admiring the paintings on the wall, considering what training regime to undertake next. He had seen unspeakable horrors in the devastation of New Londo and the effect that these horrors can have on innocent people. Artorias would not stand down as this world was ripped away from him and was always ready to hunt down Darkwraith stragglers. Lordran would need the Four Knights if they were to stand any hope against the coming darkness.

While he did occasionally celebrate and engage in revelry, he saw it as a weakness in himself, a minor break from the dawning realisation that he may be the only one who could destroy this threat once and for all, and nothing would sway him from his purpose. "Did you enjoy your meal?" The voice made him jump and stub his toe on a nearby pillar, causing a cry of pain and an 'Ah fuck it' from Artorias, making Ciaran giggle. "Nothing from the ordinary, that being that it was rather delicious." Artorias said, finally putting weight on his toe. He found Ciaran to be acting rather oddly recently, acting as his shadow for most of the time. He also felt empty around her, like there were butterflies in his stomach, and he couldn't understand what it was. Certainly she never used to engage in small talk and he was worried she had been through some sort of trauma that had changed her, despite seeming as healthy as ever. Maybe she just found him more approachable than Ornstein, with all her silence she surely had to let out sometime. But this also didn't quite add up to him, Gough was surely a much better candidate than him. "What was it that thou wanted Ciaran?" He asked her.

"Who implied that I wanted something?" She answered. They walked on for a few seconds before she finally said "Actually, I was wondering if you wanted any company on your next outing, wherever that may be." Artorias considered this for a moment.

"There wouldn't be any need." He concluded "I have Sif, and there is no need to risk yourself." It didn't seem like the answer she wanted. "But I was planning to visit Oolacile. You can take me up on my previous offer." This earned him a satisfied smile from Ciaran, and Artorias was glad that she was glad. Oolacile was a sanctuary for him. It allowed the purification of his thoughts, a place to ponder and plan against the darkness. It was also a productive outing for Sif who always seemed keen to explore new places. He had also befriended Alvina the talking cat who had first shown him the forest and its surrounding areas. She had met him with open curiosity and was cooperative as long as he didn't spoil the forest beauty. Sif broke his train of thought, bouncing up to him covered in mud, which he slathered on Artorias, earning yet another giggle from Ciaran. "Come on boy, let's get you cleaned up."

* * *

Slice to his left. Block. Thrust at stomach. Sidestep. Move forward, return with an attack of your own. Artorias nearly caught Ornstein but he had nimbly arched his back and glided right under his greatsword. He then planted his spear in the floor, using it to propel himself at Artorias and launch a flying kick. Artorias raised his shield, then threw himself at Ornstein shield first. The bash caught him square in the jaw, just as Ornstein's spear smacked into Artorias' temple. They both collapsed on the floor of the training room, breathless, but laughing all the same. "Thou fought well, brother." Ornstein said while he got up and dusted himself off.

"Thou fought like a drunken ass slipping in its own shit." Artorias returned, causing them both to chuckle. They seemed to have a complete understanding of each other. They were about to start another duel when harsh words caused them to prick their ears. They both turned to see Executioner Smough getting increasingly aggressive with a hapless servant. "I-I-I'm really sorr-" Was all they heard him manage, before being sent flying by Smough's push. Ornstein began to call out, but Artorias was just stuck in place. Artorias. Something nagged at him in the back of his head, like there was something he knew he was forgetting but couldn't quite get exactly what it was. _Monster. Fiend. _

It began to actually hurt now, a spontaneous headache. _We all know what you do with the bones. No one can prove it, but we _all _know. How can he be allowed to roam free? How does Gwyn allow this? Will you stand idly by while he dishes such injustice? Artorias? ARTORIAS?! _Without a word, only an inhuman cry, Artorias launched himself at the giant of a man. He used all his speed and weight to slam into his muscular midriff, staggering him. A vicious roundhouse kick to the back of the knee brought the executioner down. With frightening speed that Smough couldn't counter, he leapt onto his chest and struck a fist at his nose. _Your sword. Artorias, finish him, get your sword. _Artorias sprinted back for his weapon and straight into a golden pole.

Dazed, Artorias found Ornstein standing over him, trying to rouse him. Artorias sat up, too quickly and it made him feel queasy. "Artorias? What happened? You were about to kill him!" Ornstein had grabbed his shoulders and was shaking him, trying to get an answer. Artorias got up, with Ornstein's aid, and found himself alone with him in the training room, Smough's small puddles of blood still on the floor. _What happened to me? _"I'm sorry Ornstein." Was all he could manage, "I don't think I'm very well." He pushed past Ornstein, who offered little resistance, and tried to make his way to the infirmary, using the corridor wall as support. He felt find now though, clear headed and focussed, as if the whole thing had never happened.

He decided to just carry on, and if he felt ill again, he would ask for a healer. Just as he was going to leave, Ciaran came marching rather stiffly down the corridor. "Hello Ciaran." He said, in hope that a normal conversation would give him a respite from madness and make him feel better. Ciaran had always been such a calming influence for him, even if he did feel slightly awkward near her. She didn't respond or even acknowledge him, pushing past and continuing down the corridor. Now Artorias was horribly confused, making him feel worse. Pondering the days strange events, he realised he had walked onto the great balcony. Gough was sitting in the sun, carving a piece of soft wood. Hoping something else strange wouldn't occur, he sat down beside him. "Aah, Artorias, I trust thee art well." Gough said in that deep booming voice of his.

"No, not truly Gough."

"Well that is a shame, would you care to share thine ailment?" He sent a flake of chipped wood floating over the balcony edge.

"Actually, it would help me if you could tell me what ails Ciaran?" Gough gave him a wry smile and a sad sigh.

"The poor girl. Your actions have quite affected her." And Artorias was confused once again. What a day this was turning into.

"Me?" He asked disbelievingly, racking his brain for what he could have done.

"Why, Artorias! I never thought thee so blind. The girl was quite love-struck with thou, and you spurned her away!" Love-struck? Gough had surely lost his wits. The statement was so baseless, so flawed and unfathomable that…surely not. It dawned on Artorias, and the realisation hit him like a bull. The way she stared at him, followed him, the fact that she started touching him when there seemed no reason to. _Last time in Oolacile_. How could he be so blind, so ignorant to her advances? Especially when it occurred to him that he felt the same way, the feeling he got in his stomach, the emptiness and occasional knots when she was around him.

His devotion to the protection of Lordran had supressed his own emotions and made him blind to others, even when stone drunk. How could he have shut off such a large part of him. He looked up and saw a rather bemused Gough, who could see his thoughts written all over his face. "Thank you Gough." Was all Artorias could manage before he bolted towards the living areas. Ciaran was alone in her room, staring down at her desk with her back to the door. "Ciaran?" He asked, tentatively. He saw her straighten up before saying "Yes, sorry Artorias. What was it that you wanted?" Her voice was terse and sharp.

It only made Artorias angrier with himself for hurting her like this. He had to say what he wanted quickly, for fear of making a fool of himself, but also before Ciaran's sadness turned to anger with herself, and then projected that anger at others. He walked up to her chair, causing her to get agitated, and in turn stand up. She was looking at him with a rather annoyed look on her face that screamed 'the sooner you piss off the better' at him. She began to speak with a tired sound to her voice. "Artorias plea-". He took both her hands in his own, cutting her off. She stared up at him, shocked, with eyes as golden as Ornstein's armour. He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, startling her even further. She was about to say something before he wrapped her arms around her, putting his head right next to hers. "I'm so, so sorry." He whispered as he felt her breathe on his neck. She didn't respond, at least not with words as it seemed no verbal reply was needed. While he was holding her, he just felt so complete.

* * *

_They're here Artorias. And you killed them. _Thousands of bloated corpses surrounded him, their skin hanging on in shreds that were slick and oily. They were mostly decomposed, and Artorias would not have been worried if they weren't moving towards him. They shambled towards him, falling over their own detaching organs. Water poured from every orifice they had, as if they were just balloons, sacks of water held together with a fragile membrane. _They were drowned, by you Artorias. They will never rest. You failed them. _The voice was obviously not his own, but still it resounded in his head as if it had always been there. And its words were not encouraging. They were upon him now, clawing weakly at him, their faces three black holes that seemed to show the very Abyss itself. One swipe of his sword and they all fell, all ten thousand of them flopped to the floor, the entire environment black apart from them, when just a moment ago there had been tall trees and luscious vegetation, all swallowed. But then they all rose again, limbs swinging as they struggled to their feet. And suddenly, he could see their hearts, black with white trim, pulsating out of them, reaching to him, calling to him. _You need their humanity Artorias. Artoriasss. Artoriaaasssssssss. _

He awoke with a start, eyelids flying open as if his eyes were trying to burst from his skull. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, eyeing his greatsword that rested in its rack. The blade was a pure, jet black that seemed to both absorb and reflect light at the same time. Artorias felt slightly uneasy around it, but when in battle, the bond between sword and master had been as strong as ever. Only when he let the hilt go did he feel nervous, as if the weapon radiated some sort of energy.

A hand placed itself on his shoulder, softly, but with a slight force that was asking him to turn around. He obliged, seeing Ciaran with a concerned look on her face. They had only been together a few weeks, but he spent almost all his time with her and they already loved each other, it just took time for Artorias to realise it. There was no room for awkwardness or holding back between them, with their occupation they could be dead only the next day, so they wanted to cherish every minute. She sat up on her side slightly, her ivory hair draping over her perfect body, covering skin that lacked even a blemish. "Sorry I woke you." He said, his voice hoarse and croaky.

"I was already awake." She replied tenderly, placing a hand on his cheek. While this may well be true, he still felt bad as Ciaran was a light sleeper, alert as soon as she woke, letting nothing past her. He was thinking about getting up, perhaps getting some water or even beginning his day early. He doubted he would get any more sleep. But a pull from Ciaran brought him back into the pillow, and back into her arms. "I thought I was meant to be a calming influence on you." She uttered and buried her face in his chest and nuzzled up to his neck.

"You are. If you weren't here I wouldn't be sleeping at all." He slid a hand down her smooth back and kissed the top of her head. He was uneasy, the place in his dream he knew well, but why had he seen it now. To think, recently all his dreams had felt odd, as if he were watching someone else's dreams but still playing an active part on them. There was a thought gnawing at him inside, as if he had forgotten something really important, something that would decide a great many things. Ciaran raised her head and looked him straight in the eye. "It seems that you are determined to stay awake until morning." She began. _Not by choice_, he was about to say when he looked down and saw a mischievous grin spreading across her face. By now she had looped her arms under his and locked herself around him so that he couldn't have prised her off if he tried. He gave a short chuckle and returned the smile. If this were to be his final hours, he was determined to spend them well.

* * *

_You're so far from home, Artorias. By now, surely you know it can end only one way. _The cliff's edge was near, only a few inches separated him from the same bottomless obscurity that he saw in New Londo that felt like decades ago. Or perhaps it was decades ago. Artorias could barely remember, his mind addled by his mere being here. 'The Abyssal energy will not do as much as scratch your skin'. It was only now that Artorias realised his skin wasn't what would be his downfall. His silver pendant had shielded him from the dark magic that would have been so lethal to him, but only his body. More of the dark spirits were floating ominously towards him, they only needed to touch him and it would feel like his very soul is burning.

They were forcing him back as he could only strike them with the tip of his blade, so he could avoid their touch. _You cannot defeat them as a man, Artorias. Unleash the beast, shed the shackles of flesh and bone. _And the voices, the fucking voices that wouldn't relent, stop, pause, break, cease, finish, end. Freeze. Inside he was cold, so, so cold and it numbed his very being, every fibre in his body screamed at him to die. Caught in his own madness, Artorias failed to notice the creeping sprite that was now a hair's width from him.

Sif, seeing his master's peril, threw himself at the darkness, swiping with an untameable fury. He passed right through it, destroying it but injuring himself. The most pitiful whelp was released, snapping Artorias back into reality. His friend and companion was lying on the floor, unmoving apart from several weak kicks, dark mist boiling of his coat. With a scream of defiance, he slid to the wolf, and planted his greatshield into the ground. Three huge sprites hit the shield with tremendous force, splintering the shield, and shattering Artorias' already bleeding arm. Artorias was thrown back as a brilliant light shot up and blanketed Sif, who was still breathing and now impervious to the advancing sprites.

He grabbed the beast's paw, and pressed the pendant into it, hoping that it might save his friend's life if he wasn't able to come back for him. Despite the unbearable pain that threatened to knock him out, Artorias soldiered onwards, safe in the knowledge that his friend would survive. _You have saved the pup, but doomed the world. Without your shield, you have no hope. Unless you transcend material bonds. _Artorias managed to find himself, somewhere in his own head, and unleashed his frustration and rage upon the Abyss. "I AM A KNIGHT OF GWYN." Gwyn who had departed to the Kiln of the First Flame. "A SOLDIER OF LORDRAN." A land under siege, falling apart inward and outward. "AND I AM PURE OF HEART AND TRUE TO MY PURPOSE." The voice then took on a far more sinister tone. _Oh, dear Artorias. There is only one direction to go. We can hardly make thou more light. _And now Artorias saw that his lack of darkness is what would allow him to be destroyed by the darkness. _Thou art mine own puppet now_. No, no, he was still Knight Artorias the Abyss-Walker, and he scraped through his mind for any sign of him still being there. It hurt, it hurt to think but he forced himself as he also forced his legs to carry him.

i remember me and ornstein fighting together against the dragons and the sense of camaraderie we had, how I felt proud and how we honoured each other. i remember when anor londo was raised. i remember laughing with gough and marvelling at the figurines he carved. I remember havel showing me the miracles of the faith and how to stay strong under pressure. i remember being crowned of my title before lord gwyn and all the court. i remember asking ciaran to join me in the lake and she said knight artorias are you looking for an excuse to get me into my undergarments? and we both laughed and she said i need no excuse and wrapped herself around me. i remember…i remember…remember…i…

A diagonal slice, and the sprite died. _Thou needst me Artorias. _A reaching stab and another sprite was dissipated. _Scream for me Artorias, scream as I ravage your mind and then thou shalt know that thou hast truly lost. _A leap of faith into the Abyss. A million red eyes staring back. A blinding pain in the left arm. In truth, the fight was far shorter than was deserving for a knight as noble as Artorias.

He was both laughing and crying as Manus unleashed a brutal ferocity at him. From looking at the creature, he saw nothing but a pure monster. Surely this could not be the sentient villain that had tortured and taunted him all this time? The voices, that so usually read his thoughts, remained silent. Artorias landed a few decisive hits, but nothing to truly damage the Father of the Abyss. Artorias could not take much punishment, without a shield, a broken left arm and a cracked mental state, it was a wonder he could fight at all.

He convinced himself it was the fight he was born for. If so, Artorias was not born for much. A final slam from Manus, and Artorias was kneeling before him, a jarring pain in his spine as well. In his final moments, he saw his friends around him. Ornstein was giving a sad smile and saluting. Gough held a look of despair. Gwyn was there, but ablaze, and his skin was melting. Gwyn's children with blank, unreadable faces. Havel seemed to be staring right through him. His silver knights, on one knee. And finally Ciaran, tears streaming down her face, making her beautiful golden eyes red. He only wished he had spent more time with her, but he had realised his feelings too late.

What was more cruel, to not acknowledge her or to give her hope only to be lost such a short time later? He was face to face with Manus now, utterly helpless and unable to avoid his fate. "Forgive me friends…for I have availed you nothing." Then, the final voice spoke, a voice that seemed to sneer, a voice he pictured had goofy teeth, red eyes and black skin. A voice he knew all too well.

"Nothing? No Knight Artorias, thine purpose is just beginning…"

And then all was black.

* * *

**Note: Well there are the first few chapters of this story. I hope people like it as I plan to update it pretty quickly, I've just got ideas bursting out of my ears for other characters. The focus will be on Hawkeye Gough next time, so sit back and watch how Gough hunts dragons.**


	5. The Giant Hawk

_He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how-Fredrich Nietzsche _

The ceremony had two purposes. The first was the honour the knights in their heroic efforts against a seemingly unbeatable force and their part in the establishment of Lordran. The other was to make a grand statement. A statement that said we were here to stay, that those who oppose us shall face the wrath of the Four Knights and that they shall never be toppled. Anor Londo's great hall was prepared for them, a stand for Gwyn's throne and a red and gold carpet slicing the room in two as it forced it way through the centre of the hall, flanked by silver knights and behind them, nobles and retainers who had come to see the Four Knights ordained as such. The room was spilling with people. And to go with the grand decorations, they had their own grand attire. Every knight had been commissioned their own armour, to make them unique among the other soldiers, to stand out as true leaders of Gwyn's army.

None of them had their helmets, they were resting on pillows with the same pallet as the carpet, unique rings resting alongside them. Artorias and Orenstein had done away with their silver plate and chosen grand and hardy chestplates and vambraces that made them a truly striking presence. Ornstein was all in gold, steel layered over steel to create a protective and flexible defence. But where most armour is tempered in fire, his was forged in lightning, utilising its raw energy that made it volatile but also tough. The red plume that had once decorated his silver helmet now stood atop the gold one, even more proud and magnificent than the last.

Artorias was in silver, but ornate and custom fitted, his original azure cape still around his neck. His helm had the mark of the wolf on it, as well as more azure cloth. He too had a plume, but black and not as extravagant as Ornstein's.

Ciaran was dressed as every other Lord's Blade, a cyclops head piece and blue robes, a darker blue than Artorias'. She had asked for nothing but a porcelain mask, so that cool indifference would be the last thing her enemies saw.

Gough had wanted armour that was modest and rough, representing his humble nature. Heavy banded mail with a dragon bone support on his bow drawing arm and scrappy fabric that lined its underside. His own helmet was mostly a great helm that swept down to his neck with multiple slits for vision.

The knights were aligned in a line, Ciaran and Artorias on the outside, Gough and Ornstein centre. No one was saying much, it was odd to see them so in their element in combat but so nervous when all they had to do was stand before a crowd and say some words. With a curt nod from the porter, they marched as one, carful to make precise steps as they knew everyone's eyes were on them. A fanfare of trumpets played and people began their cheers, applauding and hooting with exaltation. An equal mix of shouts and murmurs carried around the hall.

"Look at how handsome he is…"

"No way, Ornstein has the reach advantage…!"

"I never knew Gough was a _giant_, I thought they just meant he was large…"

Whatever people's opinions were, they were all glad for the deeds they had done, this grand kingdom would not exist without them. As they stepped to Gwyn's throne, everyone fell silent, both as a courtesy and so they could hear their lord's words. They knights went to one knee before Gwyn, as he rose and clasped his hands around his greatsword. "Siress Ciaran." He boomed, his voice bouncing off pillars and archways. "I dub thee the Wasp Knight, and commander of the Lord's Blades. I present to you this mask, and this ring, so that you may destroy your enemies at their most vulnerable."

They had rehearsed what would come next. "Lord Gwyn, I vow to defend thou and this kingdom, until thou releaseth me or death claim me." The quietness of the room made sure that her soft voice was still heard. She stayed kneeling, as Gwyn moved next to the other end of the group. "Sir Artorias. I dub thee the Wolf Knight, and commander of the 2nd Company of Knights. I present to you this helm, and this ring, so that you may fight on through the heaviest of blows." Artorias took both items in each hand, placing the ring on his finger and leaning the helmet on his knee.

"Lord Gwyn, I vow to defend thou and your kingdom, until thou releaseth me or death take me." He stayed facing the floor, not willing to break the formality of the ceremony. Gwyn then went to Gough, who was straining to stay as low as he could. Yet Gwyn still had to stretch for the sword to reach his broad shoulders. "Sir Gough. I dub thee the Hawk Knight, and commander of the Dragonslayer Archers. I present to you this helm, and this ring, so that your bow shall remain true, and your arrow will always find its target." His huge helm was handed to him, and Gough accepted it with both hands.

It was beautiful. Also, so finely polished that he could see his own reflection in the metal. It was the spitting image of what he had in his head, and to think a fellow giant could have made something so grand filled his heart with joy. After all the hardships and prejudices he had suffered through, fiery breath and fiery tongues. And here there was this great lord whom he had followed into battle, smiling at him and showering him with gifts and praises.

Only now did the moment get to him, that all these people were finally judging him on his abilities rather than his race. He nearly botched the response, and he realised he had delayed and everyone was waiting for his own speech. "Lord Gwyn…I vow to defend thou and your kingdom, until thou releaseth me or death take me." He took a deep breath as Gwyn was ready to move on. "And…" He began. The crowd was now staring at him, making him hesitate for what seemed like an age. What could warrant such a break from formality? "I vow to cherish these gifts thou hast presented me with. I swear that I shall never remove this helmet for as long as I am in your service."

It seemed he had stunned several of the guests, and some may have broken into a round of applause if Gwyn had not quickly spoken up. But not before he shot Gough an approving smile. "Sir Ornstein. I dub thee the Leo Knight and commander of the 1st Company of Knights, as well as captain of my Four Knights. I present to you this helm, and this ring, so that your spear shall smite your foes in battle." Ornstein's helm truly was a sight to behold, a fierce representation of a roaring mountain lion, teeth and all. The plume shot up twice as high as the helmet itself, a soft but firm set of red strands. Ornstein accepted it graciously, and then said the words required. Then, at Gwyn's final lines, they stood as one, donned their helmets and turned to face the audience. "Rise, my Four Knights. Live with honour, and may all your actions be true and delivered valiantly."

Now was the cue for the assembly to cheer. And cheer they did. It was even more deafening than the holler when they entered. The silver knights stood to attention as one, stamping a foot and lowering their spears to create a tunnel as they turned to face the Four. For once, after all the bloodshed, there was a moment of respite. And Gough truly felt a part of something.

* * *

Flecks of wood fell to the floor, which Gough scraped to his left. He would pick them up later. He looked across at his friend, lightly tapping at a comparatively tiny anvil with that hammer of his. It was a wonder how those massive fingers and huge muscles allowed him to work so delicately, not only making fine metalwork but also engraving and ornate shaping. His manipulation of lightning also made even more powerful weapons; he had used this gift on Ornstein's armour.

The other giant looked back at Gough, and saw him struggling with one of his carvings. "Give me." He grunted and reached out his hands. Gough knew better than to question his expertise on these matters, and obliged. He grabbed a knife that looked hilariously small in his grip, but still moved like you would move a paint brush. He saw that the pattern of the wood had been roughly done, and turned it over to a clean side before swiping across the grain. "Cut outline. Then dig round. Not in. Then smooth." His deep voice resounded all around Gough as he dragged the knife across the wood.

Indeed, the pattern was much more clearly defined, the wood felt polished rather than Gough's rough effort. "Much obliged friend." Gough said as he took the carving back and tried to replicate the blacksmiths impressive handiwork, who gave a short chuckle and then announced "Try lots. Then you good." Gough truly felt at home in his presence, another intelligent giant to share work and swap stories with. He never said all that much, or in an elegant manner, but he was far from stupid.

He knew much, probably the most of anyone, about his speciality, and a great many other things, it was merely his method of expressing this to others that caused strangers to disregard him as a brutish giant. But the people of Anor Londo knew better, if the rest of Lordran didn't. He had helped forge this nation as he had forged the armaments for Gwyn's armies, always carrying out repairs or working on new projects. He loved for his work, and spent almost all his hours at the forge.

Deciding that he needed a walk after all that sitting down, Gough stood up and surveyed the view behind him. While the blacksmith was in his forge, a colossal archway led to a balcony which gave views over all of Anor Londo, and connected to the main walkway. He had decided to go his regular route, all the way around the main keep, and then back to his quarters lower down the city. On these walks, he often picked up snippets of conversation without meaning to. Gough seemed born with incredibly astute hearing, so he often eavesdropped without meaning to, just catching conversations taking place a story above him or even on the other side of a door. He would also remember the days when he was in his prime, hitting dragons with incredible accuracy when they were barely specks in the sky. The joint under their wings was quite vulnerable, hitting it would cause serious pain and temporarily paralyse their flying ability. A tactic that he used often in the war before the time of Lordran.

The final march upon the dragon's sacred mound had been a ferocious battle. The dragons were trapped upon the hill, being swarmed from all sides by the knights. Gough's archers had ensure that the dragons remained on the ground or they would turn the fight on its head, flying in behind them and breaking their formation. Ornstein was putting down every dragon that came at him, he was truly a beacon of hope for all the soldiers as he refused to fall. Gough had put down many dragons that day, many men had also fallen but they had triumphed at the last. It was a dark moment when Kalameet came forward however. His wings blotted out the sun, casting a thick, black shadow over everyone. Then he swooped, cutting a clear line of dead through Gwyn's knights with his claws draping across the floor as he flew.

Soldiers were grabbed in his jaws and thrown around, armour was slashed right through and his eye seemed to incinerate soldiers where they stood. He plucked one of his archer's head clean off and maimed another. He had trapped the poor man under his paw as he dug another talon under his gaping severed limb. The fighter had screamed, a horrible scream that wreaked of desperation and pain. The black dragon had made sure he was conscious during the whole ordeal. And Kalameet had laughed, _laughed _as it even prised the gaping femur from the knight's body.

That was when Ornstein stepped in and braced his spear against the beast. Ornstein had put many wounds upon the monster, but it still fought on, seemingly oblivious to the damage. It pinned the renowned dragon slayer under its arm, prepared to give him torturous treatment for inconveniencing it. Looking back, Kalameet was probably furious that it had met a worthy adversary that it could not strike down with one swipe. Gough's finest moment perhaps came then, loosening an arrow that struck forth with all his fury. It struck Kalameet straight in his eye, burrowing into it and just edged the skull around its eye hole. It reared up and gave an strangled roar that punched through the din of battle. Blinded, it left the battle, flying high but still taking another arrow in its back leg calf. Yet there was a pile of corpses all around where Kalameet had stood, a significant portion of their force had been decimated. To Gough it had felt like a hollow victory. Kalameet had been sighted much later, but it had kept beyond Lordran's border, and seemed content to stay there. No point rattling the hornet's nest.

_Alas, enough of reminiscing. The present is for living in._ His stroll had nearly reached its end point, the cathedral high above him now as he continued down Anor Londo's lesser known backstreets, which he struggled to fit in. And that was when the runner called after him. "Sir Gough!" He cried, hoping that the giant could hear him. Surely enough, Gough did and turned towards the red faced lad. "Sir Gough, your presence is requested in the cathedral. Lord Gwyn said it was most urgent."

"I thank thee." Gough replied. "I shall be there shortly." Gough took the main road this time to get straight to the keep, after all, most people try to avoid a stampeding giant so the crowds presented no problem to him. He burst through the cathedral's great doors, alerting the silent sentinels who put their weapons down as they realised his identity. Into the pillared hall, and a concerned Gwyn was flanked by Ornstein, Artorias and Ciaran.

And so the situation was outlined to him, and he was sent on his way to Oolacile, but before he left, he was sure to drop off his ring near his fellow giant. He would appreciate the expert craftsmanship, and he felt that this would be one of his last outings. The worst thing would be for the ring to be lost forever. Anyway, in Oolacile, the denizens had stopped contacting Lordran, and travellers were reporting suspicious activity. If it were brigands, Gough's imposing stature may frighten them into obedience. If negotiation was necessary, Gough's etiquette and supposed understanding of human politics would serve him well. His literal presence was to be felt, a symbol so that he would truly stand out among the humans and remind them of Lordran's presence. But Gough would have chosen any other of the Four Knights.

The humans would probably fear him and not cooperate willingly, he would be seen as an enforcer rather than an emissary. Artorias had expressed concern for the kingdom, and in Gough's mind was a far better choice. He was well regarded by the humans and seen as a noble barrier against evil. Ornstein would also have shown the splendour of Lordran, that they could clad a warrior in gold while he shoots lightning. Ciaran would blend in with the humans, but her unease around them would come out rather soon. Maybe Gough at least was a better choice than her. In truth, Gwyn's mind had not been sound recently, he was distracted by something, and he had become haggard and weak. More worries to pile upon their already troubled leader.

He had arrived at one of the lesser known entrances to Oolacile, but the only one he knew of that he could fit through. Devoid of all human life, there was nothing but the rustling in the trees and scurrying of animals in the undergrowth. _Scurrying in the same direction, _Gough noted. He decided not to linger and get on with the task at hand. A short walk across a moss covered and slightly cracked stone bridge, which Gough was forced to shuffle across. With his head in the treetops, he saw the gardeners and the guardians that acted the labourers and muscle for Oolacile, a famously peaceful nation. If anyone were to invade, for whatever reason as Oolacile didn't really have anything worth taking, than they would have to contest with the Sanctuary Guardians, hulking warriors who had devoted their whole lives to the defence of the land. Royal Wood usually had so many sights of nature to behold, but today it was unusually quiet, and the Guardians didn't as much as acknowledge him.

The first person he met was a wiry looking man who was hunched over and staring blankly at the forest. Gough was surprised to see that he didn't flee as he got close, but did look incredibly nervous, eyes darting from side to side as his lips twitched. He didn't make any reaction as Gough arrived by his side. "Good morrow to thee, human. Canst thou show me to a member of the council?" Only now did he look at Gough's face, or rather his helmet, and expressed surprise and them annoyance, as if a deep thought had been disturbed. "Oh…a council representative…I…err, if you err…would follow…me…" He mumbled, speaking like an old man despite not looking over thirty.

_Clearly there is something very wrong here, _Gough thought. Upon entering urban Oolacile, he was greeted by an unflattering sight. The buildings still stood with Oolacile's passive architecture, filled with plants that suggest a closeness with nature. But it was much too dark, as if the sun was constantly behind a cloud, and no one stood in the middle of the paths, the few people that were there were huddled under shade or in doorways. And it was also much too quiet, and Gough saw that no one was speaking, people were just doing their duties in silence, or staring at the ground. Gough's guide caught the eye of a man in flowing blue robes with a silver trim, his face gaunt and stern with short black hair, striking green eyes and the smallest five o'clock shadow.

"Ahh, you…must be Hawk-eye Gough." He began, his face remaining expressionless. He spoke oddly, putting emphasis on the wrong parts of words and sentences as if he had a stammer that would appear once in places of his choosing. "A plea-sure to make thine acquaintance. I am Tobias. I under-stand you are…h-here to report back to Lor-dran." Gough felt gradually more uneasy around him, as if he was in control without seeming to be, that his words said he was bowing to Gough, but his eyes were sharp and implied a maliciousness of some trick that Gough was missing. "Indeed. It was seem there have been some disturbing reports. Might I inquire if there was any problems of note?" Gough made sure to speak slowly and surely, if only to give him a longer break from the madness surrounding him.

"No, no…everyth-ing is quite fine here. You can…tell your mas-ters that we are simply ren-ovating." But Gough was no longer looking at him, the clouds of smoke in the distance had roused his interest. Oolacile had no industry to speak of other than the occasional mining of fine jewels, but this was seen as an art rather than a labour. "I think I would prefer to look around." Gough growled, lowering his voice even more to try and assert his authority. "Then all-ow me to accompany you." He replied, and then shot the other man a look which suggested that he come along. Gough wanted to go down the side streets but they were far too narrow for him to traverse. He now saw the source of the smoke, huge furnaces that were deep in the lower part of the township, the exhaust ranging from misty to thick black smog which he could only see from the walkway's edge.

As Gough's eyes drifted to see a reason for this sudden industrialisation, he noticed several tattered workers, skin black with dirt and their feet clasped in chains. Oolacile had never before engaged in slave labour, or most manual work, and this was serious cause for concern. One of the smoke towers smelled wrong, like burnt meat but more sickly. He scanned the base if the stack, and saw what appeared to be an arm poking out of the furnace door, when it was promptly shoved back in by a labourer. Gough recoiled from the side, feeling sick and turning to the two men accompanying him, innocent facial expressions. "The dead." The wiry man muttered. "There…err…has been an awful…sickness in the lower part of the town." He rubbed his hands together, still hunched, eyes wide that looked as though they were about to cry. Gough wasn't convinced and resolved to search every inch of this kingdom before he returned to Anor Londo. And then he would return with the full force of the gods if need be.

Storming off further into the city with the two men scurrying to keep up, Gough heard the sound of crying, and then screaming that reminded him of a bleating child when their favourite toy was taken away. He descended a few winding alleys before he came to the source of the noise, a square, brick, single storey building that was at the end of a wide road, broken up only by a small plaza with a statue in the centre. Sounds echoed from the building, shouts and metal clanking. As Gough cautiously crawled in on his hands and knees as the doorway couldn't accommodate him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a shirt man with cropped hair prodding a screaming man chained to the wall.

There were others chained up as well, but a few were limp and looked as if they had been literally drained, the skin tight over their bones and mouths agape with eyeless holes. The torturer turned to Gough and spoke in a high, strained voice. "They have been _very _naughty." He divulged and then giggled. "Yes, they must be told off. They are badly behaved." A disturbing grin grew across his face. Only now did the two other men appear, their faces revealing that they didn't want Gough to see this. The councillor mumbled something about 'humanity' and looked at the floor. The whole place had gone mad. Determined to take action, Gough flicked the torturer out of the way. He only used his finger but it still sent the small man sprawling. Gough ripped the prisoners from their chains, letting them fall to the ground and gasp for breath. _Something wholly unnatural is occurring here. _

He was about to apprehend the other two, before more screams went up, back in the township. A shadow crossed speed across the ground as Gough left the building and saw a huge bat in the sky. A single orange light stood out against the darkness. "_Kalameet_" Gough hissed. So the dragon had made its way here. In his mind Gough picture the swathes of comrades it had desolated, the torture it had caused people he knew. Well he was not going to stand by as it destroys this town and its people. Heart pumping, Gough leapt and grabbed a wall nearby, pulling himself up to the higher walkway, startling several citizens. Pounding forward, Gough reached where he had set down his weighty bow in the centre of the arena-like structure near the entrance. Kalameet had risen higher, so Gough decided he needed a vantage point.

A nearby tower had several handholds which he exploited to reach the summit. But before he could even shoulder an arrow, Kalameet had fled far beyond his range, diving into a valley and staying there. No doubt he would return, and Gough intended to be waiting when he did. Hours, and eventually days passed, and Gough did not waver, remaining vigilant throughout. He felt incredibly fatigued, and keeping his eyes open was a chore, never mind shouldering his bow. Perhaps sleep would be best, so that when the dragon did arrive he would be at his most effective. He slept for no more than two hours, but when he awoke all was dark. There was no glare of any sort, which Gough found odd. He swivelled his eyes, and that was when Gough realised.

He was completely blind. And then the most terrible cry went up, a deep moan that shook the foundations of the tower. Followed by the cries of a city in pain. All in the darkness.

* * *

Removing his helmet had never occurred to Gough, removing his helmet would be like asking someone to remove their nose or ears, it was as much a part of his head as his skull. Sitting and carving was his life now. They offered a chance to put his thoughts into reality and convey his feelings in something physical. In truth, Gough hoped he would see something in the carvings. _Ha, see_. Gough tittered at his own disability. But in all seriousness, the carvings might have offered some form of enlightenment, a realisation to his purpose. Gough had had a purpose, but he had lost it some time ago. Escape may be possible, but the world didn't trouble him up here, and what use was he to anyone now? No, much better to wait and think, living out the rest of his days fashioning portraits in wood. So simple yet so complex.

His thoughts were disrupted by a screech, the cry of a man and a beast at the same time. Much of Artorias' time was spent like this, prowling the arena and the nearby town, likening any living creature as a foe. Originally, there had been indications of his old friends still being there, he was fighting his actions and desperately trying to hold back the onslaught the Abyss was so desperately trying to make him commit. But now, he was little more than a meat puppet. Manus had burst the Abyss into Oolacile, corrupting its citizens and sorceries, making them twisted, perverted and tortured creatures, and Artorias was his prize catch. The sadistic irony that he has become the very thing he swore to destroy, how wholly unfair the world really was that such a pure hearted individual would endure such a fate.

More screams from Artorias, and then the clash of steel. Another poor soul who would feel the former knight's wrath. The fight lasted longer than usual, but ultimately the dark knight prevailed, giving a hollow howl as the Abyss filled him completely, the sound akin to a burning flame that had water dripped on it, powerful but hissing all the same. Maybe Gough could kill him himself. Bah, a fool's notion. Another part of his head called him craven, how can you stand idly by while the Abyss leaves destruction in its wake? But mostly he was content to listen. As of now, Artorias had confined himself to the township, Gough might only antagonise him. He tried to remember the last thing Artorias had said to him. _Travel safe, Hawkeye. Don't steal all our glory. _What glory now Artorias? How could this hold any broken sense of glory?

* * *

**Note: And there you have the last story of the Four Knights of Gwyn. Hope they were enjoyable. Next chapter will look at Havel's experiences and how his actions shake the very foundations of Lordran.**


	6. The Stone Bishop

_It is dangerous to be right in matters on which the established authorities are wrong-Voltaire_

Their enemies stood resolute, using all manner of weapons available to halt the advance. The mountain stood in their path. A swipe of claws, a gnashing of death, hellfire rained down from all angles.

The mountain crawled on.

Occasionally their attacks would chip off shards of granite, falling deep into the abyss that may be the afterlife. Sometimes the shards fell off but did not splinter, some innate force trying to make the shards regroup with the rest of the structure, that individually they are small, but as one they are solid.

The mountain crawled on.

What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Everything else gets damaged. Shards still fell, but far too few to make a difference, and the enemy that were strong by themselves but small in number were falling just as fast as the shards of the mountain. Their wrath deflected of the rough surface, impacting on smooth steel that happened to be a conductor of heat. Lighter than stone it may be, but pure strength was the factor here. The full force of their enemy's fury was upon them now, a fury that would make common men weep and soldiers abandon all hope.

The mountain crawled on.

Despite their immense power, despite their scorching flames, despite their keen claws, the dragons were pushed back, crushed under the unstoppable weight of the mountain. Cornered, the dragons banded together, making their hate drive them.

The mountain then split. Each shard stood not five yards further than each other, with one shard, a great shard that stood at the very front. Every man was clad in stone, their feet sinking into the ground, that the very earth itself could not withstand them. Each man had a club of sorts, ranging from the length of a man's arm to the length of a man's body, held over their shoulders. Even their plumes were slabs of cliff. The leader stood at the helm, a mighty shield before him. The warriors behind him were utterly obedient to him, loyal to the point of fanaticism, respecting no law but the word of their leader. None of them carried shields, their leader was their shield and carried a shield that represented the great defensive burden he carried for all of them. If they forfeited their duty, no shield would save them from the wrath of the horrors they fought. The warriors were soldiers and priests, teachers and inquisitors, their appearance struck fear into the hearts of all not just for their armour but their reputation as well. They were tempered in brutality and born in conflict. No act was too hard or too morally dubious if achieved the desired end. After all, the end is all that is left once a deed is done.

The leader stepped forth, and held his iron-wrought club high. He brought it down of the outstretched neck of an everlasting dragon, one that was about to savage his own superior, Gwyn, Lord of Cinder. No words were needed, as the stone warriors charged forward and the dragons suddenly knew what it was to be like on the end of a fury as ferocious as their own. The blow as severed the dragon's spine, the shockwave breaking it in a further three places. The granite leader wrenched open its jaw and reached for a large canine protruding from its gums. In a show of strength that didn't seem possible in a man not much larger than a human, he ripped the tooth clean out from its perch in one motion. Carrying it in both hands, he bent before Lord Gwyn and presented it to him. Then, not willing to abandon his warriors, Havel the Rock got to his feet, held his greatshield before him and threw himself into the fray.

* * *

Havel mumbled the verse to himself, mulling over the lyrics. He shook his head and crossed out a line of words that he had written on a tattered scroll with an inked quill. The words just didn't sound right in his head. He was about to continue writing when there was a knock on the door. "Come in" Havel boomed, his voice sounding like a giant's. A small boy who couldn't have been more than ten entered, dressed in simple clothing with a rough tunic over his shirt. He seemed quiet timid, despite Havel only being in his formal garments as armour tends to be a bit cumbersome for handwriting. "What is the matter at hand?" Havel asked him, trying to speak softly to calm him down, but coming across as gruff anyway.

"C-Crandor has requested your presence. He is waiting by the gate." He said, quietly and without looking Havel directly in the eye, as if his gaze would turn him to stone. Havel thought for a moment on what the lad had just told him, and what this might mean. He stood up and pushed his chair under his desk when he saw the boy eyeing what he had been working on. "A new miracle I'm devising." Havel said, reading the messenger's thoughts. "It builds upon the basics of Magic Barrier. But will be far more effective." _Perhaps a final solution to the problem of sorcery. _The young boy suddenly seemed fascinated with the piece of paper that had smudges and scribbles all over it. "Do you know much about miracles?" Havel asked him.

"I've only heard of them. Apparently your body becomes possessed by the gods and they can give you great powers." He said, mouth agape and eyes wide. This promoted a chuckle from the bishop.

"No, not quite like that. You see, everyone has the potential to be a conduit for the gods. Anyone has the ability within them to use miracles, they just need to practice; only the devout can cast more advanced miracles. Once you have apt knowledge of the gods, proved your faith and understand the verses can you use these powers. The words merely unlock the power, a medium for you to use the spells of the gods. That is why making new ones is so difficult. The words must mean something, often a verse from a holy text, and allow you to focus divine abilities." Havel realised he was prattling on and probably confusing the child. But he did love to share the works of the gods, all ones great and small, and to instruct members of the faith.

He ushered the boy out of his chambers and set off for the castle gates. Havel's Fortress was a sturdy structure, made of the same rock as his armour but less condensed. It rose high and had facilities of all kinds, but was a defensive structure first and foremost. There was only one gate, and it was half a foot of steel portcullis which could only be lifted by a giant. The way to it was a narrow walkway above a high fall into the forest below. They would then have to fight their way through multiple passageways that were four abreast at their widest. Then, at its summit, it had a wide open rooftop that opened the enemy to attacks from all sides. All guarded by Havel's Warriors. The fortress was the only way into Anor Londo, at the end a large passageway through the mountains that led to the City of the Gods. Havel walked past multiple statues of several different deities and soldiers, standing as tall as a man or in small cubbies in the wall. The fortress' chapel was vast, almost as large as its mess hall, and there was more than one. If needs be, they were only a short walk from the local church where congregations from the nearby burg would gather every holy day. Despite being a fortification, their home was still well equipped for peace time.

Havel reached the impressive portcullises, Crandor standing in their centre. The fact that he was in battle gear was the first thing Havel noticed. "My Lord." He greeted Havel as he approached, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Havel tapped him on the shoulder to signal him to stand up. "I understand you wished to speak with me." Havel began.

"Yes my Lord." Crandor responded. "It would seem your suspicions were confirmed. There are several unaccounted absences from the clergy." He took a short pause before continuing. "And all are female." This worried Havel, very much so as he was always protective of members of the church. The maidens had an important role in the church, tending to the sick and infirmed and overseeing the day to day duties. There is no way they could have antagonised anyone, that these poor, innocent girls were being stolen through no fault of their own. What their captor intended to do with them was another matter, and could be all manner of perversions and sick practices. Havel noticed that Crandor was still waiting patiently for his next command. "Thank you, Crandor. And thank the deacons for discovering this. You may continue with your normal duties, I shall make this matter my top priority." With that Crandor made a curt bow and turned to walk away. Already a plan was formulating in Havel's mind. It would be risky, and he would have to time it right, but if he pulled it off he could purge the very source of this crime.

By the next morning, Havel had persuaded a young maiden to aid them in their exploits. He assured her that his legendary warriors would be protecting her the whole way but she was still understandably worried. People with no combat experience were sporadic and subject to stress, causing them to act in impulsive ways that would often create some sort of problem. The best thing to do was keep her in her comfort zone and ensure she is utterly calm before they begin.

He waited for evening, just as the sun was setting, before ushering her to a rather deserted shrine on the edge of the forest with the burg still in sight but with no one around. They waited for a few hours, she was kneeling in prayer by a small statue, a small well and a few bricks on her right. The moonlight allowed Havel to see that tears were streaming down her face as she tried to keep her composure. She probably knew full well that someone or something would try to snatch her and Havel felt sympathetic. He was cloaked in tree cover, feeling uncomfortable himself. Skulking on the shadows was definitely not his strong suit, something he rather left to the Lord's Blades. A rustling not ten yards from him caught his attention. The maiden noticed it as well, but tried to hide it. She had begun shaking and taking short sharp breaths. From the tree cover emerged a Channeler, trident pointing at the maiden who was now frozen with fear. Without a second thought Havel broke from his own cover and raced at the sorcerer, who noticed the bishop all too late. Havel sunk a stone fist so hard into the Channeler's face that it dented its helmet and crushed one of its eye holes.

Of course Seath would be involved. Of course sorcery would be involved. That godless, impure form of magic all instigated by that traitor. Only the faithful may succeed at miracles, but sorcery allowed power to remain unchecked. He had seen first-hand the damage sorcery could do, harming offender and innocent alike. The monstrous consequences that occur when a spell or experiment fails, how sorcerers will stop at nothing to receive limitless power and all the evil creation of that freak. Havel had devoted so many countermeasures against this type of magic, and now they had finally brought the war to him. Painful memories were brought back up, memories Havel would rather not tinker with. It almost brought tears to his eyes the damage that sorcery has caused to his life alone. _No, I must remain focussed on the task at hand._ He would not fail in his duty, he would purge this stain from the very earth.

His questioning had been swift and heavy-handed and the Channeler had spilled his guts rather soon, giving him access to a restricted portion of the Duke's Archives. Havel decided to follow this lead immediately, detaining the Channeler in his fortress for further interrogation. Struggling for grip on the grassy verges, knowing full well that a slip would result in death from the cliff's edge, he edged round to the back of the Archives. Finally stepping onto solid ground, he followed the smooth stone wall and found a small wooden doorway set flush with the rest pf the building. He pushed the key into the lock, and eased the door open.

* * *

It had taken months of preparation, but Havel the Rock knew he was finally ready. He hadn't shaved in a while and coupled with eyes that had not seen sleep for two days it gave him a slightly crazed look that he was worried would concern his men. Although, he must be at least half-crazed. He was hesitant about his plan, but ultimately it was the right thing to do. The fate of those poor maidens, maidens that he had sworn to keep safe and protect, and now they lived a fate worse than death. He was fighting against what he had helped build. However, these actions, they were barbaric, actions that they had waged war to halt, and yet here was Lord Gwyn, condoning them. If he would block his path to Seath then so be it, he would just have to strike down his greatest friend as well.

Velka was quick to latch onto his idea; the heretic would normally have been assaulted by Havel there and then but she had offered considerable support for his cause. The Dark Ember was indeed a mighty thing, and something that should not fall into the wrong hands. He would be battling lifelong friends, people he had taught and fought with. If it would right so many wrongs, then the sacrifice was necessary. Lordran needn't be destroyed, simply cleansed of sorcery and all who would defend it. Hopefully, the Lords would see his side and bloodshed could be avoided. But Havel was under no illusion of what would likely happen. His vindictive way of thinking had one clear goal, and no amount of collateral damage would stop him.

His warriors had assembled with him on the roof of the fortress, a stout force if there ever was one. No speech was needed, no rousing cry. He simply thrust his arm in the air and the warriors beat their chestplates creating a deafening sound. At that, they marched on Anor Londo.

Everyone knew the plan, and it had eluded to every eventuality. They stopped just before the gates of Anor Londo, as Havel went inside alone. If he did not return fast enough, his followers would assume he and fallen and have to continue his cause. No more violence than necessary. Havel strode all the way to the great hall in full combat dress, alerting several people, but never being stopped. He stood at the great doors, and turned to look at the sun. "SEATH!" He bellowed in a voice that could be heard all around Lordran. Everyone in Anor Londo stopped what they were doing, those in sight looked at the mad bishop with a mixture of surprise and confusion. His hatred of sorcery was no secret but he wouldn't dare turn against Lord Gwyn, his trusted companion and good friend, so what could be happening here? "SEATH!" Havel called again, in an equally loud tone. "SEATH!" His voice never faltered, and he kept calling for what seemed like an age. People only looked on, not daring to approach the enraged bishop lest he turn his anger on them.

Finally, a roar in the distance heralded him, and he saw the albino dragon emerge from his Archives, out from the rock he had been snivelling under. "SEATH! COME AND DIE LIKE THE REST OF YOUR BROTHERS!" Every time he called he remembered a different face that sorcery had harmed, the tortured forms of those hapless maidens. He would smite this dragon, he would break him so hard they would have to sweep his remains off the streets. The flying figure was gradually getting closer, the very sight of him making Havel boil over with rage. His weapon quivered in his hand and he clenched his teeth so hard he almost burst a blood vessel. He actually rattled inside his armour he was so angry.

The dragon finally landed before him, giving a defiant roar that reminded Havel of a cat trying to growl. He didn't waste time with words. All the faces flashed before him. He would not fail them, he would not disrespect them. Havel swung a blow that would have splintered anyone of normal size, throwing all his weight forward, knowing he was not facing a normal foe that may capitalise on his overextension. The crystals on Seath's stomach were pulverised and flew off in chunks. The Dragon Tooth sunk deeper into the Godfather of Sorcery, sending a jolt down Havel as bones were snapped and flesh was bruised, capillaries and veins tearing apart and wreaking havoc with internal bleeding. Yet Seath seemed unmoved by the blow, as his front snapped back into position and bruises disappeared before Havel's eyes. It was like nothing he had ever seen. Far beyond the abilities of Replenishment, even a Great Heal. There was no sorcery capable of restoring the body. How could Seath have done such a thing, with seemingly no effort on his part? "What devilry is this, traitor? Do you just follow one heresy with another?" Havel spat and yelled simultaneously, preparing another blow by lifting the club over his head. Thrice more Havel struck, and thrice more his foe's injuries were healed as soon as they appeared. His adversary made no move to attack him. Havel looked up at the dragon, and despite his blank eyes there seemed to be something mocking about his expression.

Gwyn had finally emerged onto the courtyard that Havel in the centre of. There was an absence of a certain Four Knights, probably away on some task or errand, so he was flanked by two silver knights. Would they even be told of what had transpired here? Their Lord looked old and haggard, as if the weight of the world had set itself upon him. He had a bewildered expression on his face. "Havel? What is the meaning of this?" He tried to sound assertive, but only sounded confused. More silver knights had appeared, tipping the situation against Havel. The sight of Gwyn gave him a mixed feeling, ranging from pity to respect to hatred for his condolence of sorcery, that he could let a creature so vile commit so many atrocities. The sun in Anor Londo rained light down as hard as ever, in utter defiance of the situation.

Havel's Warriors would still be waiting at the gates, but not for much longer. Soon the fair city would be rushed, buildings likely raised to the ground and loyal soldiers struck down for no crime. The true gravity of the situation hit Havel hard, so many would likely die. "Your men will die Havel." Gwyn began, interrupting his thoughts. "A stern defence will meet them. Boulders will come crashing down and halt them where they stand." Gwyn knew what would truly make him pause, that the safety of his followers was ingrained into Havel, as much an instinct as anything else. How long had he known of his rebellion, if at all? But his resolve didn't die, he refused to forget his purpose.

Screams penetrated the air, followed by clashing metal and thundering crashes of rock. One of Havel's lieutenants had already made his way up to his leader, stone armour spattered with blood. A silver knight rushed to meet him, but failed to avoid the swing of an enormous club, pancaking the knight. His spine was almost crushed upon itself, and he was dead almost instantaneously as his nervous system was severed. It felt wrong to Havel, but before he could say anything, a huge arrow hit the warrior in the gap between his shoulder and neck. The armour halted most of it, but it still nicked the back of his neck, sending a spray of blood in the air and paralysing him. The lieutenant fell to the ground, still alive but unable to show it. Now Havel cried out, in fury and in pain, that he had failed his men and left them to die for a hopeless cause.

More warriors had reached the walkway, but most were gaunt and limping. Battle could still be heard below him. For the last time, Havel the Rock used his giant of a voice. "STOP!" He screamed, rasping his throat dry. The cry shook Anor Londo itself and ensured that no blade moved and no bow sang. His Warriors immediately fell to one knee, zealously awaiting the word of their leader. There was only one way he could stop this, one way he could salvage the remaining lives. His soldiers had trusted him to be their rock, and he had betrayed them. He felt an utter failure, that he had let those in his care come to harm to bring all that he had worked so hard to defend crashing down around him. Where he had been so forthright before, he now felt guilty and confused, unable to discern a clear way of thinking. Slowly, almost embarrassed-like, Havel surrendered himself and the Occult Rebellion went put not with a bang, but with a whimper.

* * *

He waits the ending of the world at the base of an old watchtower, long abandonded and forsaken. He may have been able to escape and break the door, but it was likely magically protected and who was he to disobey the word of Havel the Rock? The room was dark and damp, not so much falling into disrepair as being eaten by nature. Moss had forced itself through cracks and broke up the indifferent brick work with flashes of green and waterfalls of moisture.

His armour sits heavily on his shoulders, the cast iron chains holding slabs of rock together. In his hands he wields the renowned Dragon Tooth and Greatshield of Bishop Havel. Mighty heirlooms they may be, but he dare not touch the sacred artefacts of the mighty Havel, instead using these well-made imitations. Those, along with all his other equipment, was stored in secret in Anor Londo, awaiting a worthy successor to the Rock's apparel. What a shame it would be for that armour to never halt another blow, for the shield to never block another magical strike, for that tooth to never again taste battle.

He treasures the ring on his finger, a symbol of faith in the heroic Havel that allows him to follow his leader without burden of the heavy equipment he bears. Havel himself needed not this boon, he could carry his soldiers on his own shoulders, having the strength and endurance to fight in such weighty arms with alarming speed. It is said that Havel's Greatshield truly had the power to turn a man to stone. If only his replica could pay such a fitting tribute. Not wanting to withstand the shame of exile, or the mind decaying passing of the ages, Havel had wished to die in battle. But he also did not want his final act to be a betrayal to Lord Gwyn, who, could not bring himself to kill his battlefield companion. So he, a mere human, had volunteered to take the punishment in Havel's stead, who was died secretly with his own soldiers. He had his head struck off by his own Dragon Tooth, and was allowed to fall with the friends who would follow him to the end of the Abyss and back.

The ring was the only connection he had left to the noble order and to his glorious leader, and he treasured it greatly. He had developed an unhealthy attachment to it, but it was likely the only thing keeping him sane, allowing him to keep a grip on his mind. Alas, a human would be dust by now, but as if imprisonment wasn't enough, he was also cursed. He could feel his sanity slipping away with every passing minute. The reminder of the life he did have in service to The Rock.

"Are you a man of peace or man of holy war?" Havel would ask his warriors. Every one of them knew they were fighting for a cause, unified behind one leader with one purpose. Unfortunately, they lost all purpose with the death of the great Bishop, and the order fell apart. _Trust in Havel, _he reminds himself. _He was our shield, and he shall guard you now. _If he could focus his mind, surely he could imitate the state of vindication Havel had demonstrated, the cool and collected frame of mind that allowed him to follow his purpose. If he trusted in all he had believed in, in Havel the Rock.

Bishop Havel.

Havel the Rock.

Havel the Rock.

Havel.

Havel.

Hav…

Ha…

H…

H…

…

…

…

* * *

**Note: Crandor-Fictional member of Havel's Warriors**

**That's the end of Havel's chapter. It took me a bit longer than expected as some other things got in the way. If you notice any spelling/grammatical errors that make you want to shank me with a rusty nail, please let me know ASAP. Next chapter will involve the Father of the Abyss and will probably be a bit shorter than the previous ones, so it should be here soon!**


	7. The Primeval Father

_He who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man-Samuel Johnson_

There was nothing but blackness, nothing that could be described as shapes. The sensation was calm and fluid, but an odd sense of unease could be felt underneath, like something was missing. A physical ache was felt deep in his lower back, like awakening after a long time in slumber. Then, all of a sudden, light ripped through the dark, piercing his eyes and burning them after so long in the void. Colour wrapped itself around him and ensnared his small and frail body, lifting him off the ground. Thoughts, feelings and memories came flooding back and he felt coherent for the first time in an age. Life, the very essence of existence, filled his hollow body and brought back sight and smell, hearing and speaking. He looked down at his hand, clenching and tensing them to confirm that he finally had control over a body, a physical form. His experience in death was all forgotten as the elation of life again took hold.

But another part of him felt awkward. This was wrong, what is dead should be left to die, if he was dead at all. Was he just in eternal slumber or was he truly dead? He still gripped the tiny dark sprite, which longed to use energy again, but another side knew that having his chance again was unnatural and could only end in disaster. But ultimately, he gave in to instinct and regained his own senses. The cavern he stood in was dark, but lit with torches and he could still see. The ground was solid rock apart from a few patches of dirt. A person sized hole was cut into the floor, which he recognised as a grave.

There were people standing around him, maybe five figures gently illuminated by the light. Humans. Humans! His children had come for him, to see their father and have him lead them to a greater age! Or maybe merely to pay tribute to their creator, a curiosity that culminated in his discovery! He was elated and excited and…and…in pain. In terrible, terrible pain. It hurt, it hurt so much and it hurt everywhere. His very bones were burning and his flesh was falling from him. His skin was flaking and cracking, being torn from his very being by an invisible force. He looked at himself, and he looked perfectly normal. But the feelings he felt said different, that his body was destroying itself from the inside, and blood was falling freely from his nose and eyes. Pain soon turned itself to anger and he was mad at everything and everyone, and they all must be punished.

The humans were reaching out to him now. They were helping him, they saw their father was ill and are trying to comfort him. But instead they touched him, and pushed hard, and if they were trying to push right through him and pull his heart out. The Furtive Pygmy was still injured, and was trying to release himself from the pain, and didn't fully notice or understand what was happening. He clutched the scrappy remainders of the Dark Soul tightly, as if it would shatter if he dropped it. The humans were talking amongst themselves in heated discussion and if the Primeval Human had observed them thoroughly, he might have seen that something wasn't quite right about them, that none of them seemed genuine, like they were just puppets with hollow personalities.

With the Pygmy writhing in pain, he had a far looser grip on the soul in his arms. The humans, as one, eerily in synchronisation, reached for the tiny sprite, a mere sliver of the original and once great Lord Soul, the polar opposite of the Light Soul. Their hands closed around it, rather tightly. While it may look ethereal and weightless, the soul have a strong substance indeed and was as solid as stone.

The Original Human suddenly realised what was transpiring and was able to ignore his pain for a second and yank the precious soul away from the incredibly weak attempt to snatch it from him. How dare they? His children, his creations, and they would be so insolent, so brainless to think that they can simply grab the mighty Dark Soul? How can they not understand what would happen? The Dark Soul is never static, it changes and adapts to its possessor. The human form was frail, as was the Furtive Pygmy when he found the soul within the flame and meant that humans relish life because any day could be their last.

As he did with any stressful situation, the Pygmy subconsciously reached for the pendant that lay upon his neck. But his hands only fell upon empty space. And then panic set in. His pendant, his precious pendant, the thing that had been with him from the start. It was like a living thing to him, another friend, a family member even that he could share his innermost thoughts. It was a primal and instinctive notion, but he had such a deep-seated attachment to it that he couldn't ignore the emotions that surged up from some forgotten recess. And now it was gone, the other half of him was gone and the pain was replaced by pure rage.

The hate surged through him, filling his every pore with blind anger, he felt like he could flatten all of civilisation with his sense of loss alone. The Dark Souls however, latched onto his feelings, still raw from his recent awakening and fluid in nature. The soul then used his own resentment against him, smothering the hapless Pygmy in swathes of dark and emotion, pure instinct and primitive thoughts wrecked his brain and burst through orifices in his body. The Dark Soul had weaved its will once again, and now the Furtive Pygmy was the image of destruction.

Primeval Man was no more. Manus had been awoken.

With naught but the power of his mind, Manus wrenched open a fissure on the cavern floor, a chasm that broke the already thin barrier between The Abyss and the Material Plane. Otherworldly energy poured into reality, filling the cavern with a vicious energy that Manus felt utterly in tune with. The bones within him broke and reformed, the soul spent the remainder of its power and gifted Manus with a form of devastation in the style of abyssal corruption. He grew and grew, the hair upon him sprouted and flowered. A tail whipped out from behind him, and demonic antlers burst from his skull in both an awesome and gory display that tore his flesh asunder as he was shrouded in a skin of darkness. All upon his head there were red eyes that sliced through inky black air, gifting him with unparalleled sight.

The humans, utterly awestruck and immovable with fear were set upon by Manus. He needed only to clench his hand and he could feel their humanity, small and weak. His mind reached I to them, and clasped their humanity. He ripped and tore, bent and broke until the shape was of his design, and the humans were reborn amidst crippling deformities and stinking mucus. He could see through their eyes as they saw through their own, his children were finally bonded to him completely. They were strong and obedient, everything they had never been.

A cyclone of emotion ruled Manus, the physical pain subsiding and replaced by a stabbing in his core, a loss and misery that must be corrected. The wrenching nostalgia compelled him to reclaim the precious pendant, the object of obsession that he would stop at nothing to reclaim. While elation would have hit Manus at the retrieval of this priceless and irreplaceable object, it would not be enough. The world must be punished and reformed, for stealing his pendant. He would make them strong, and he would be with him always, and for that they would be thankful.

The Abyss was gradually spreading, and gave a distinctive sweet smell to Manus as its toxic fumes grew. The corruption was still young, and lacked the potency of the True Abyss but would serve well all the same. There was so much humanity around him, fragments of his discovery and his nurturing. It was his to do as he pleased. Reaching into their minds, he saw confusion and emptiness, the recurring face of a toothy serpent in their mind's eye. A creature of the dark, as he was now. Yet it was void of the tiny black sprite and outside Manus' control. As long as he steered clear of his purpose, Manus was happy. He could hear quiet thoughts, words of encouragement and approval, but also knowledge that the force of nature could not be controlled or possessed, only set loose.

In truth, Manus was not a villain, or even realise that he was perceived as evil, only that he had a task and was hell-bent on achieving it. That crucible of conflicting feelings within him was bubbling over, and simply ended in an aggressive and violent nature. All he needed was his pendant, and the memories would return and he could be at peace.

* * *

As the last sprite was twisted by Manus, he could see all around the lost land of Oolacile. A whole kingdom had fallen to his will, and yet there was still no sign of his invaluable keepsake. Even scouring different realms of time had proved fruitless and energy consuming. The pendant called to him and he somehow knew that he would feel it from half a world away.

Soon his influence would spread across all of existence, and nothing would be safe from him. He would, _he must,_ reclaim what was stolen and then unleash a miasma of darkness across a realm of light. Even as he thought this to himself, Manus was confused, conflicting thoughts and senses that voiced their views as one, all at once making him benevolent, misguided, lost, happy, sad, angry and evil. It was almost like he was a mesh of several organisms, as each emotion was given a personality of its own that took it in turns to rule him from time to time.

He did not see the dark as evil, far from it he saw it as the raw energy of life itself. One must detach themselves from the traditional prejudices of light and the absence of it. Fire can gift warmth, but it can also burn without discrimination or discernment. Dark can obscure things from view, but it can also hide one's self. There was no good or evil, the disparity that this world was built upon was wrong and against the flow of nature, which is why the Abyss must rise and devour all, make a new grey that is the Abyss.

Manus began to feel a slight tingle within him, a rekindling of ancient feelings that would make him complete. Across centuries of time, he felt it calling to him. If only it would come closer, and he could reach out and grab it…

The eyes of his children then began to go out, one by one the red lights were turned off. Peering through their vision, he saw a righteous knight and his canine companion killing their way to his lair. Gradually, the aggression took over Manus, and he became more of a brutal force rather than a thinking creature. But still, the different parts of him called, albeit more quietly now. In this knight he saw no blackness, nothing to change the unanimous sense of purity. The Father of the Abyss saw his opportunity. Another method of returning his pendant.

He could make him his pawn, if he could only relinquish the beast for a moment. Apart of him said use this pawn, make him a servant of your absolute will. But another part of him, a larger part of him, felt nothing but rage and hate and wrath and pain. And it was time to unleash these things upon the world.

* * *

**Note: The shortest real chapter yet, but I hope no less entertaining. I was always interested in Manus' side of the story, and felt (see Dusk's dialogue) that it wasn't mostly his fault that he ended up as an antagonist, and I hope you like the change up of looking at someone 'evil'. The next portion will look at Paladin Leeroy (Jenkins) on his quest for kindling (chicken). **


	8. The Pious Crusader

_Progress is born of doubt and inquiry. The Church never doubts, never inquires. To doubt is heresy, to inquire is to admit that you do not know—the Church does neither-Robert G. Ingersoll_

Leeroy was sat at an ornate blackwood table, in the chamber of the Bishop himself, alongside many of his esteemed priests. A decision was to be made here today, and thought it may seem small now, Leeroy could sense that it would have enormous repercussions in the future. He looked at the statue of Allfather Lloyd in the wall, and hoped that he would grant him the courage to face the trials ahead.

Leeroy had been indoctrinated into the Church from a very early age, being nurtured for the life of a holy cleric. He was not from a wealthy background and being offered to the Way of White meant his god-fearing family was free of another mouth to feed and could appease their deities. He attended lessons every day and slept in the Church's hostel, seeing little of life outside of the holy veil. Where the other children listened attentively, Leeroy was noted for his innate sense of justice, often standing up to bullies and prepared to act, violently if necessary, to defend his faith. This, when he came of age, enrolled him into a completely different programme.

Paladins were the paragon of holy crusaders, more skilled at arms than the Cleric Knights and still as devout. They were the strong arm of the Church, when they needed a show of strength or problem sorted, a paladin would often be the answer. Yet, they were also pawns, the naive soldiers who served zealously and believed in the pure religiosity of the Church. Leeroy was exempt from this, in that he knew much about the Church's inner politics, and it was less than pure.

There were many who would use faith as a way of achieving their own goals and further their own ambition. While Leeroy followed his own strict code, he would not openly purge the Way of White, after all the common people would surely lose faith. '_Worship the gods, not their followers' _was what he always said, while man can always be corrupted, the gods were still as true as ever.

And now he sat here, before the most important men of god, who would judge his heinous crime. It still disturbed Leeroy himself, how he could be afflicted with the Undead Curse. He was culling hollows, a job he had done regularly in the few years that the curse had been active, when the clerics with him were slaughtered by a squad of undead knights, leaving him surrounded. Leeroy had fallen after a ferocious battle, but instead of seeing the peaceful embrace of the afterlife, he awoke back by a bonfire of Lord Gwyn where he had said a prayer before setting off. It was then that it was revealed to be the first of the holy flock to be cursed, and he was close to wavering in his faith.

"Leeroy," The Bishop began. "We have reviewed your situation. And your… condition…presents an opportunity." He had a clipped nasal voice that lacked authority, but had a calculating tone all the same. This was a man who always knew what his cards were and how he planned to use them. Nothing would be left to chance. "We've decided to send you on a quest of utmost importance. You are to retrieve the ancient Rite of Kindling from Lordran, Land of the Gods. You are to go alone and shall leave immediately."

Leeroy was left in stunned silence. He was expecting to be excommunicated, and here he was being given a mission that he couldn't refuse. "You'll go down in history, Leeroy." One of the priests said, her hair just visible under a white hood. Leeroy had no interest in fame, he only wanted to serve the gods as best he could. And here was his opportunity. "Of course, your grace. I shall prepare my things." Leeroy answered, trying to keep an even tone.

"Not just yet paladin. We have some gifts to aid you on your pilgrimage. May I present Grant and Sanctus, weapons wielded in the Dragon War and relics of the Church." Three priests stepped forth, one holding Sanctus, two required to carry Grant. "And finally, a white soapstone. Apparently it is of use in the land of the gods." Leeroy accepted them graciously before leaving the chamber. While he was grateful, the decision confused him. Grant was a scared and powerful hammer, but too heavy to be held with human hands. While Leeroy was known for his inhuman strength, both in body and in mind, he would have preferred to use his own blade. And Sanctus' power was all but dried up, a mere flash remaining of this once magnificent shield. They were parade weapons, for show and as reminders of their history. And he was to keep his armour as well. While it had served him well and was still a potent defence, it was tattered and worn and an upgrade was due. And the soapstone. What was he to do with that?

Still, Leeroy was resolute, and left for Lordran on the morrow. He took out a small cloth insignia from his drawers, a sword embedded in a mountain of granite. The words _Inmus bellor confidante lapidem _were inscribed underneath it. In the strength of rock we trust. The ancient symbol of Havel's Warriors. Bishop Havel was a hero of Leeroy's, strong willed and a devout soldier, his men would almost worship him like a god, accepting no word of law but Havel's. His fortress was said to still be in Lordran, standing as proud as it had centuries ago. Leeroy found it odd that there was so little of him in history, as if he had tried to be wiped from the annals, pages torn out of books and records amended. As the original Bishop of the Way of White, he should surely be celebrated. The tales Leeroy had dug up were of great adventures and stories of feats of heroism, his warriors an unstoppable force. He could only imagine what it would have been like to fight beside The Rock.

A grand spectacle was made of his departure, people crowded round streets to see him off and touch his hand for a holy blessing. Once clear of civilisation, it had taken him a further nine days to reach the Land of the Gods. He had to use one of the old and abandoned entrances set deep into the mountains, which saw him emerge at an old and ruined shrine with a bonfire at its crown. The place was completely deserted. The first undead to set foot in Lordran rested by the fire and peered at the scenery around him. The work pf the gods was truly breath-taking, and he decided to return once his task was done and explore this great kingdom.

The Rite of Kindling was rumoured to be somewhere in Gravelord Nito's domain, deep in The Catacombs. Leeroy did not know where this was, but the graveyard a mere fifty yards from the bonfire seemed like a good start. He inspected the graves as he proceeded to a set of descending stairs. As he walked past some of the tombstones, skeletal hands shot from under the ground. Most remained there as the ground was too solid for the dead to move them. However, some graves were poorly packed and skeletons with glowing blue eyes assembled themselves a few feet from Leeroy. They readied scimitars that they seemed to have held beneath the earth.

Leeroy decided to attack quickly, gripping Grant in two hands and bringing it down upon the nearest set of bones. The dense iron not only split the skeleton, but shattered the bones into fragments sending keratin chips spinning off in all directions. The second and third ones backed off slightly, demonstrating a degree of intelligence that alerted Leeroy to the strong magic that was being used to resurrect these bodies. He showed them no respite and swung the hammer in a horizontal swing that hit both of them. There was almost no resistance as their bones were scattered.

Leeroy turned and went down the stairs into The Catacombs. There were a few more skeletons here, but he battled his way through, going further into the earth and found another bonfire in a small room off to his left. There were two corpses slumped against the back wall, but he ignored them and proceeded to the bonfire. "Are you some sort of moth?" A weak and croaky voice asked the paladin. He turned to see one of the corpses was speaking to him. No, not a corpse, merely an injured man, breathing so shallowly that Leeroy had mistaken him for dead. "Drawn to a flame?"

Leeroy stood up and walked over to him and could see a large blood stain on his brown robe, down by his hip. "No, the bonfire, it just…I am undead and it is of comfort to me." Was all Leeroy could do to describe it.

"Undead? Ahh, you mean the curse? Yes, I have heard tale of it. You seem sane enough." He rasped, and then gave a laboured cough. He then gestured to the body beside him. "He is finished. He may well return as a hollow. That would be a travesty. We are both necromancers, while you seem to be a member of the church. I understand if you want to slay me for defiling life, but I was desperate." Leeroy was busy analysing his wound, and let him continue with his story. He may inadvertently give away some advice. "We serve Nito, First of the Dead, and in return he grants us the power to resurrect certain dead ones. Nothing more than skeletons however. The true sanctity of death must be preserved. But, I've been trying to get past this. My wife and child were taken from me, rather cruelly, and I've been obsessing over bringing them back ever since." It was now that Leeroy saw two death masks in his hands, one for the mother and one for the child. They looked eerie with their blank eye sockets, but Leeroy made no comment.

He was sympathetic to the man's plight and decided he would be able to help him. He prepared a Replenishment miracle, touching the man's wound and saying the verse. "That should be fine in a few minutes." Leeroy began, as the bleeding slowed. "Necromancy isn't the answer. Find hope in the gods, place your faith in them and they shall show you the path to walk." He made no reply, and the light didn't allow him to see his expression, but he imagined it was a wry smile. All he did was tug on Leeroy's arm and hand him a sack. "I do not endorse them." The necromancer said, "But you may find them useful."

Without another word, Leeroy stood up and set off. He emerged in an open area, the rest of the tombs carved into the cliff face. It was mostly empty, occasionally corpses of necromancers would be found tucked into corners surrounded by piles of bones. Going deeper still, there was a small graveyard, skeletons waiting for him. He readied Grant but was sprung upon by the most bizarre of enemies.

Floating heads surrounded him, making a squeal before exploding, rocking the ground beneath him and almost tearing his armour clean from his body. Four more were encroaching towards him. Leeroy made a snap decision as he spied a ledge deep into the cavern on his right.

Paladin Leeroy took a leap of faith.

He landed heavily, just on the rock's edge, sending a jarring feeling up his legs and a searing pain in his left ankle and knee. He collapsed on the outcrop, body shaking. He was able to drag himself away from the edge, resting against the opposite side of the cliff. He took a moment to regain his breath and assess his injury. It looked bad, and felt even worse. He was sure he had shattered a bone or tore a ligament, and was worried that his mission would end right here.

Well, he would not die moping. He reached for the soapstone, and carved his name into the rock. If anyone else would make it here, they could carry on the mission in his name. He then let his head loll back as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Several hours later, he was awake and seemingly sound. His bent his knee, and saw that he could stand up perfectly fine. The power of Sanctus had healed him, if slowly. Saying a quick prayer to Lloyd and Gwyn, he scanned the ground below him. There was a cave within sight, and he decided that this was the way to go.

He walked over a stone tomb, and into a very poorly lit gaping cavern. There were seemingly endless drops by walkways that he could barely see. Edging forward ever so slowly, he took out a handful of prism stones. He was conservative with them, dropping them at what he believed to be key points in the path. He held Sanctus before him, trying to make it illuminate the way forward if only slightly.

He was able to make it further down, but not before being jumped by three giant skeletons. He raised Sanctus and somehow blocked a trio of heavy strikes before returning with his own assault. Swinging Grant wildly, he aimed for their legs, trying to knock them off the floor. He was able to crush one, but the other two blocked him. The furthest giant jumped forward, sword in the air. He brought it down on Leeroy, who raised his shield just in time, but was pushed back by the force of the blow. He tried to stop himself, but tripped as his foot stood upon thin air. His hands grasped at nothing, and he fell into the darkness.

He landed with a thud, and nearly slipped off the edge, but was able to embed Grant into the ground and pull himself up. He was even deeper in the chamber now, and surrounded by three skeletons that stood on all fours. Reacting quickly, he unleashed the power within Grant, knocking them back. He followed with a Force, that knocked them all of the ledge before they could so much as yelp.

Scanning the area around him, he saw light in the distance, and sped towards it. "The sun be praised!" Leeroy cried, as he saw sunlight and the open outdoors. Dropping down, he stood on a narrow walkway in the fresh air. He decided to rest for a moment and gather his strength. After a few minutes spent gazing at the marvellous scenery, he stood up and went over to another cave entrance. He pressed on through the darkness, smiting more giants and towers of skeletons, all piled upon one another in a horrific manner. Yet they only slowed him down as he still went forward.

Leeroy stood in a separate cavern, water flowing softly along the ground. He had been plagued by giant skeletons and skeletal beasts, but by trusting in his faith, he had persevered and arrived here. The Rite of Kindling was surely nearby. Treading carefully in the water, he jogged further into the cavern. Small, baby sized skeletons burst from the ground, but Leeroy dispatched them simply by dragging Grant along the floor and crushing them. How had skeletons so small got here? Why were they so small? Had he just killed the remains of children? Trying not to think too hard about it, he followed a ramp upwards towards another cave. Venturing in, he saw only a hole that led to another cavern. But before he could take another step, a bright red curved sword, jutted out of the ground in the chamber below, warning him to stay away.

There was only one being who could have access to such a weapon. And then Leeroy's heart sank. Knowing the upper echelon politics of the Church, he knew he could not attack the Gravelord. Nito did not bother with the outside world or matters of the other deities. He simply wanted to spread death and disease. However, death was sacred to the Church. If undead kept dying, then they would feed the bonfires with humanity, preserving the Age of Fire. There had to be someone to keep death in check.

It was a fragile system that desperately tried to maintain the god's power. Nito represented the disparity that the Age of Fire was built on. If Nito cared not for the outside world, he would not just hand Leeroy the Rite. And now, everything hit him at once.

He was meant to fail. Given an impossibly heavy hammer, a shield that was a shadow of its former self, old armour and being sent alone. It was simply a plan to dispose of him. Of he did somehow get the Rite, then the Way of White would have gained a powerful tool. If he died, they were rid of a cursed clergyman. He had been lied to and deceived all along by the very people who claimed to be the gods' mouthpiece.

By now, they would assume he was dead. They would send more undead, more victims to be killed. Some might even make it as far as Leeroy. He slumped down, feeling utterly defeated. The small sack dropped from his belt, and several cracked red eye orbs fell from it. _These heinous objects should be disposed of, _Leeroy thought. But then he had a different idea. _Some undead might make it as far as me. _

One betrayal doesn't reverse a lifetime of religious doctrine, and Leeroy only thought to protect Nito. If he died, the foundations of the Church would fall from underneath them all. He clasped the orb, and dug his fingers into the broken eye.

* * *

Leeroy sat in the chamber, his will all but broken. He had spent all the orbs, travelling across time to protect the Lord of Death. Now he had nothing left. He was content to sit and die, a failure for the world to remember. _Paladin Leeroy, _he thought, _the paladin who failed. _Surely he was near hollowing now, and then he would be naught but a blight to the world.

Alas, some fight returned to him. He would die with a weapon in hand, for the gods! He would return to the Giant's Tomb and continue fighting until he fell, slaying all in the name of Gwyn, Flann, Lloyd, McCloyf and all the other deities.

No, he would march the other way. Straight for the Gravelord. He would retrieve the Rite of Kindling, and purge the Church of all its corruption. He would ensure the purity of the gods was restored as was in the days of Bishop Havel. Newly resolute, Leeroy leapt down the hole.

Several skeleton warriors threw themselves at him, but Leeroy put them to rest easily, his mail deflecting their blows with ease. Then Nito limbered up. Leeroy charged him, ducking under a sword stab and hacked at his skinny legs. They didn't give way, but the Gravelord was stunned for a second, as Leeroy gave a relentless onslaught. He used Wrath of the Gods to keep his sword strokes at bay and damage him, as well the special power of Grant. He barely paused for breath and did not bother to block as the strokes slid along his armour, sometimes giving his minor cuts and bruising his arms. But nothing could stop Leeroy now, as he sensed the Gravelord was weaken.

The Death Lord made a vertical swipe that caught Leeroy in the shoulder, making it about an inch into his arm. He had to drop Grant for a second and cry in pain as blood seeped from the new cut. But only for a second. Embodied with the power of the divine, he continued swiping, putting all his force into his blows. The Gravelord crouched down on his haunches, curling into a ball. Leeroy was sure this was an indication of him being near death and hacked away still. He did not notice the light gathering around Nito's body.

Suddenly, Nito reared up and released a toxic energy that threw Leeroy right off his feet and ten feet in the air. He hit the nearby wall with his back. A cracking sound was heard as the paladin fell into a small alcove in a pool of water, a mere ragdoll at mercy to physics. His spine and neck had been shattered in five different places. Lacking the purpose to continue, Paladin Leeroy stayed there as his blood emptied around him. And was soon very, very dead.

* * *

**Note: Well I surprised myself with how quickly I finished that. I had some drafts to go off, so that shortened the time pretty drastically. Anyway, anyone who's been looking at this story and snorting "Needs more Tarkus" you only need wait a little while more! Next chapter will feature one of the most metal knights in Lordran, and a personal favourite of mine. Don't hesitate to review, I'm always looking for ways to improve my writing.**


	9. The Iron Knight

_Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto __death__-__Sun__Tzu_

As the Black Iron soldier stood before the thick iron gates, he wondered how such a proud land had become a place fit only for undead. Of course, he knew the answer. The Siege of Lordran it was called, a mighty name for an incredibly one sided affair.

Once the undead curse appeared, it took advantage of an area with a significant number of unused corpses. The bodies of New Londo that had washed up on dry land were the first to be claimed, but their despair and drained humanity had driven them utterly mad, and there was little purpose to their lives. It was rumoured that the bodies of those that were trapped under the water returned as tortured souls who cannot be harmed.

Then, the outer wall of Lordran was besieged by the spare undead spilling from the human kingdoms. The workers were constantly repairing this section of the wall, but alas the undead found no way through. Lordran brought its undoing upon itself, as ages of waste pouring from the sewers manifested itself in the moat. Coupled with the constant decaying cadavers of undead, this created a foul and toxic swamp that unleashed waterborne disease, horribly disfiguring the workers, who in turn became undead, and other unspeakable creatures. It was aptly named Blighttown. A healer supposedly went to help the inhabitants, but no word came back and 'Blighttown' was sealed off.

Next, with supply lines cut off and crops failing, Lordran began to run scarce of food. It wasn't long before some starving peasants took to cannibalism in the sewers, forming secret blood cults where only the most heartless were spared from starvation, the spares being sold on black markets. The epidemic worsened down there, as rats and worse made their way closer and closer towards the surface. The humans used as food were often fleeing workers from the wall, and thus were contaminated. The food that people thought was saving them was actually killing them.

This soon evolved into a plague, forcing men to kill their neighbours and barricade infected in their homes as it spread to the lower area of the Burg. Torch wielding 'Cleaners' patrolled the streets with a draconic rule, making a law unto themselves and self-entitling the power to execute infected on the spot. Great pyres were made for piles of sickened, as the Cleaners used dogs to sniff put the infirmed. Thieves' guilds soon overran the populace, robbing from their former friends and living in a state of martial law. This whole area was quarantined and sealed, leaving no hope for those left inside.

More undead came from the human kingdoms and spilled over the now largely unmanned walls. The Burg was an urban battlefield for a time as the common people became militia and tried to beat back undead alongside experienced soldiers. Unfortunately, undead don't stay down, and their number only swelled. Weapons that untrained masses could use were in high demand, and so the firebomb became a weapon of choice, as the fire easily peeled apart the shambling corpses. Eventually, that fell as well.

The local church was a refuge for those who tired to find asylum with the gods, but alas, it was not designed to be particularly defendable, and the undead poured here as well. Several Balder knights were amongst the resistance, being forced to fight against hollowed brothers. The undead climbed under the bridge, and under the gate forcing their way into the parish. That was when the Great Armament was assembled, and here they stood. No human could survive in Lordran, and so it has become a land of undead.

Havel's Fortress had been gutted and completely repurposed with only the outside keeping its appearance. It was now Sentinel's Fortress, or Sen's Fortress as it had already been called, and served as a test to Anor Londo, the fortress being the only entrance. A prophecy was heard all around the human world, and the nations of Berenike and Balder had decided to force their way into the Land of the Gods. The city had once been open to all, but the gods closed it up as threats amounted around them. Those who wanted entry would have to pass this test, a proving ground so only the best may enter the sunlight city.

Tarkus stood alongside Knight King Rendal, the leader of the expedition. About two hundred undead men stood behind him, but of course the knights of Berenike stood at the front. Further still were the Paradons, Tarkus' own set of troops who distinguished themselves with plate armour and visors on their helms. Tarkus stood heavier clad still, iron forged so hot it stayed black and was incredibly heavy. No man but Tarkus had been able to do more than walk in it, and so he was one of the prominent commanders of this attack. And yet he still held the great beast of a sword beside him. It was nearly as tall as he, with a fat blade that seemed to defy the rule of most swords and make it unwieldy. Yet Tarkus could hold it in a single hand, swinging it at seemingly impossible speeds. Its weight allowed it to utterly crush his opponents and shatter common armour. Unlike many of the leaders alongside him, he had served with common soldiers and in the ranks, where things were messy and green boys learnt that war wasn't poetic.

A simple battering ram stood before the portcullis, and Balder knights with grappling hooks stood on either side of the gate. King Rendal turned to see the forces behind him, awkwardly crammed onto the bridge were only two abreast could stand, the men lining up as far back as the church. The Paradons stood on the small area before the fortress, densely packed like the soldiers behind him. "I never much liked attacking buildings." The man beside Tarkus moaned, Willas a member of his own troop.

"Because you can walk around an area that you have no knowledge of and run into a vast number of well-armed enemies?" Tarkus replied in a gruff voice.

"No." Willas whined. "The kitchens never serve me. I'm hungry after all this fighting and instead of food, I get 'Who the fuck are you?', 'How did you get in here?' and 'Ah, help! He's gonna rape me!'" Despite himself, Tarkus couldn't help but chuckle. Willas was always providing dry comments and pessimistic, dark humour. After the little exchange, Tarkus focussed on the task at hand. Rendal raised a hand with a rapier within it and brought it down in a swift motion, the signal to begin the attack.

The ram thundered against the gates. _Boom. _The hooks were thrown up, catching the battlements and allowing the more lightly armoured to climb to the top. _Boom. _A unanimous roar went up, a cry that kept in time with the battering ram. _Boom. _Weapons were held high in the air, as Tarkus adjusted the grip in his hand, moving it closer to the hilt. The fighting would likely be close-quarters, so he wanted more manoeuvrability and to keep his shield in his other hand. _Boom. _His Paradons stood behind him, as ready as him for the promise of immediate combat. Only now did Tarkus feel utterly calm, where other men were frantic and adrenaline filled, he felt at home, like combat was the only place where he truly knew what he was doing. He had no illusions as to brutality, he had seen and felt horrors that make most men curl up and cry and that there was no glory in killing your fellow man, but there will always be wars, soldiers to fight them and kings to wage them, so the best might as well do it.

The last crack of the ram made a sharper noise, and the grating of iron. The portcullis had a hole punched through it, the metal bent back around a black, gaping orifice. Tarkus, in full battle dress, leapt through the gap, first one into the breach. The room he arrived in was large with pillars on either side, creating a clear path that led to steps. It was populated by at least a dozen towering man-serpents, creatures that looked as if a human had had a snake strapped to its head. They all reared up, prepared for the soldiers that were besieging the fortress.

The nearest one charged for Tarkus, who almost laughed at its recklessness. He shouldered his shield and let the snake-man hit it, absorbing the impact and then deftly flipping it over his shoulder. He immediately followed with a wide swing that kept the snakes at a good distance, his sword nicking blades and shields of the serpents that got too close. Tarkus heard a hiss to his left and made a strong lunge in the general direction of the sound, quickly strapping his shield to his back to protect from strikes from behind and two handing his greatsword for maximum reach. He hit a soft and fleshy resistance before bracing his feet and pushing forward, skewering the snake warrior. He lifted the corpse right off the ground and made sure it was limp as it slid down the blade and then flung it towards the other defenders.

It hit a group of them and stunned them for a second, which was all the time Tarkus needed. He rushed forward in full plate and lifted his greatsword high above his head, bringing it down on the closest serpent. It hit it just shy of the neck, embedding in its shoulder. But it didn't stop there. The momentum of the sword brought it down with such a force that it went down to the serpent's waist, almost cleaving it into two pieces. Tarkus yanked the weapon out, letting the carcass flop to the floor, but not before it hung there for a moment, mere meat flagging in the air. The gap had created almost two separate entities, the smaller side lolling around like jelly. The carcass 'wobbled' for a second and hit the ground rather softly.

Its comrades seemed unabated by the incredibly brutal way in which their fellow soldier had been slaughtered and continued their attack. His Paradons were now through the breach, delivering a coup de grace to the snake-man on the ground that Tarkus had flipped. Several bolts whizzed past him, releasing high pitched gargles and hisses ahead of him. Tarkus turned on the last serpent, feinting to its right. It made a wild parry allowing him to slide to the left and swing his sword all the way around his body, gathering speed and slamming into the serpent's side. If the cut didn't kill it, the force of being knocked off its feet and slamming into a pillar certainly did, as a snapping sound echoed within the chamber.

More knights were piling through the gate, gradually refilling the room. Screams of those who had scaled the walls were heard above, as they had obviously come into contact with a heavier resistance than expected. _The sooner this is over, the fewer lives needed be lost. _"Stay behind me!" Tarkus growled to the troops and jogged down the only hallway before him. The atrium on the other side certainly wasn't what he expected. It was a great cavern, spikes jutting from the walls and a pool of sludge below them. The only way across was a bridge spanning at least a hundred yards that was wide enough for a single man only, which had constantly swinging pendulums along the path. He formulated a strategy quickly and relayed it to the soldiers in the entrance way. "We split into ten man teams." Tarkus bellowed. "The closest ten men formulate a squad, and we split up to explore the fortress. If you find a way out, stay there. DO NOT return into the fortress, wait for the remainder of the force to rendezvous with you. Fight with pride, die with honour." He then made a prompt salute and gestured for ten Paradons to follow him.

He made it to the first set of pendulums, which were fairly widely spaced. It was more a matter of timing and judgement than dexterity, and Tarkus was past it easily, as were the men behind him. It would have been plain sailing if there weren't four man-serpents blocking the way, as balls of lightning were being flung at them from above. Tarkus held his mighty shield before him, making sure it covered his whole body. He could have made this mass of metal even thicker, even heavier and still be able to move as easily. However, at this weight he could use it easily, moving it swiftly in every direction.

He turned to the knight behind him. "Latch under my arm and push on my shoulder. When I run, run with me, with all your force." The knight only gave a silent nod, showing the perfect trait of a soldier and obeying a command he does not understand. Tarkus took a deep breath, and sprinted at his foes. He held the shield in both hands, letting it rest against his chest. Suddenly, he broke in to a sprint, crashing into the serpent in front of him who was in mid swing. The tower shield hit it as it was off balance, and threw the snake into the mud below. The three behind him saw what was going on and braced their shields. But the force of an extra man was key, and they too were knocked of the precarious walkway. Eventually his forward momentum got the better of him, and Tarkus kept tilting towards the ground until he face planted the floor, lucky to avoid the pendulum and hit a covered path on the other side.

He stood up and saw the rest of the regiment lining up to cross the bridge. He had knocked into several silver knight statues resting on the wall, and sent a few tumbling onto the ground. He turned to his left, up a set of stairs. Another bridge was ahead of him, with more pendulums as well as a cobra styled snake-man on the other side, flinging lightning spells at the wall he had used as cover. He decided that he would have to keep this serpent fixed on him, and made a charge to distract it from the other soldiers. He avoided a pendulum swing and braced behind his shield as a jolt of electricity hit it. It spread across it and sent sparks flying through his arm. It felt like his bones were shaking and suddenly weakened, but he managed to keep a hold on the greatshield.

Tarkus banked on the fact that the snake would be vulnerable after firing a spell, and charged forward. It spread its arms wide and shrieked at him, flamberges at the ready. It raised two to block and two to strike forward, slashing to Tarkus' right. He raised his sword and blocked the strikes, quickly lashing out with his shield and striking the serpent in the face. He followed with a kick to the midriff, staggering his foe and sending it stumbling backwards onto a nearby pressure plate that was in the room behind it. Three arrows were shot in quick succession and buried themselves in the snake-man's back, all three finding its spine and killing it.

Content that the area was clear, Tarkus waited in the room and took a moment to catch his breath. The other nine men in his team caught up with him, their armour still polished and clean. "It would seem that thee has naught of use for us." One of his men jested, Valcorius judging by the red eagle emblazoned on his shoulder, and slapped Tarkus on the shoulder.

"I have broad shoulders." Tarkus replied. "They serve to bear the brunt of the burden." Only a moment later Tarkus was off again, through to the next room. There was another bridge that lead outside and a passage below that led from a raised ramp to a dead end, all inhabited by serpent-men. Tarkus reacted first, locking down the stairs leading to their walkway with his shield. The men behind him leapt down to the gathered snakes, one speared by a falling sword. Another took a shortened lucerne hammer to the arm, the point shattering right through the shield and finding soft serpent underneath. Tarkus bashed with his shield, making contact with the snake-man's equipment. He followed with a series of swipes from side to side, forcing the serpent back down the stairs. On his final swing he pretended to over extend and stumble; the man-serpent saw his opportunity and made a move to strike. Tarkus then reared up and grabbed his opponent's sword hand, stopping the blow in its tracks. Braced against it, Tarkus kicked its right leg out from under it, putting it on one knee and an incomplete splits, a leg hanging over the side. He then held his sword in two hands, bringing it diagonally across the serpent's face and then back against its chest.

Two red valleys had been cut into it and it was dead instantly. The Paradons with him were pushing corpses into a pile, thankfully none of them human. He now had a choice of going up the ramp or outside. He decided the ramp was the way to go. He stood under the raised wall that was about ten feet high. Giving his men a leg up, they grabbed the ledge and were upon it one by one. When only Tarkus was left, they lent a hand and pulled him up, two of them required to pull all the combined weight of soldier and armour.

A short walk later and they were at a device that was pushing boulders down a ramp. Tarkus believed it lead outside. "We must clear the way for the others." One of the men stated as another boulder went tumbling down a separate ramp. Tarkus acted quickly and surveyed the contraption. There was a lever on the side of the block of stone, and he saw it faced away from the direction the boulders were being pushed. He brought it round ninety degrees so that it fell harmlessly out of a broken ramp that led to the forest floor below.

To his right would only take them back were they came, so it was either down another ramp or through a doorway. The other ramp was designed for boulders, so that was likely an obstacle that needed overcoming on the way here, so he took the doorway, his Paradons right behind him. Four holes were cut into the wall, and a raised square of ground before it. Tarkus stamped on the pressure plate sending three lots of four arrows thundering into the wall opposite. Content that all d been used up after a hollow clicking noise from the contraption, he walked tentatively down the hallway. Following it round, there was another bridge of pendulums, but not before two more serpent guards. He backed off into a wider part of the corridor as two Paradons arrived by his side and locked their shields alongside his. The snake-men crashed into the stout shield wall, going shoulder first, trying to break apart the formation. The shields held and the knights pushed back, forcing the snakes off their defence. Now exposed, they were easily cut apart leaving warm stains on the walls and slippery entrails on the floor.

Tarkus made a point of not stepping on their carcasses, if his boots were covered in blood it would be like walking on fresh ice. Friction was probably his best friend when walking these bridges. The pendulums on this one were tightly backed, with little room for a stopping point in between. He would have to run past all four at once. Before he could begin, a scream went up from below him. He took a single step on the platform and could see the rest of the fortress below him. On one of the walkways, four Balder knights were sandwiched in between several man-serpents, with pendulums swinging all around them. One of them backed away and was caught by one of the thick steel axes.

They weren't especially sharp but came down with incredible force, and it struck the knight in the shoulder. It dug under the gap in his armour and came right through his arm. Unfortunately for the knight, it didn't rip his arm off, and even worse, he remained conscious throughout the whole ordeal. He was flung back and forth like a dog's toy, legs flailing as his body was completely exposed to the mercy of inertia. He was hollering all the while, filling the cavern with pained cries that strained his voice so hard it sounded like grating metal. After a few more turns, his arm couldn't bear any more of the force, and was hewn off, rising almost as high as the platform Tarkus was stood upon. The remainder of the man's body fell to the sludge below, still screaming. Dark shapes moved along the floor and only seconds later everything was silent. The rest of the Balder knights had been killed, the bodies decorations for the bland bridge.

The more time they wasted, the more men who would die. Tarkus sprinted into the flying blades and skidded along the floor at the last hurdle, charging for the other side so that the knights behind him could advance safely. Indeed, at least five greatsword wielding serpents stood in the entrance way to the next room. Tarkus was able to pre-empt their attacks. He had observed their way of fighting in the earlier parts of the fortress and saw that they were incredibly aggressive and paid no heed to strategy when they saw an enemy. He planted his feet firmly on the bridge and reached for his own monster of a weapon. He made no move forward, instead swinging his sword in a figure of eight in front of him. Keen to see him disembowelled, the serpents rushed towards him, one at a time as the bridge could fit no more.

Some went with shields raised and some charged in. One even tried to dodge. Tarkus ensured the result was all the same, five and half foot of metal crashing into them and either slicing them in half or knocking they off the bridge. Walking into the room, instinct told him up was the way to go. He took a moment of respite and eyed the stairs to his left, as one of his knights sprinted up the stairs as if hollowing would come up and pinch his arse. Tarkus made a move to follow him and saw one of the spellcaster serpents being beaten around by a heavy mace, its face gradually getting more misshapen and softer with each blow.

It wasn't long before he was literally flogging a dead snake and Tarkus had to place a calm and reassuring hand on his shoulder. He stopped immediately and stared at his commanding officer. "Sorry sir." He uttered, his voice hoarse and terse. "After dodging flying fucking blades I needed to vent my frustration on something." Tarkus only gave a slow nod that meant he understood completely. If it meant he would be more steadfast for the coming trials, then Tarkus had no objection.

Following the stairs to the top, he saw the thinnest bridge they had come across yet. It wasn't even wide enough to walk normally, he would have to place one foot before the other. This was further complicated by another serpent mage stood on a platform, ready to fry them after one step. He wouldn't be able to make it down this walkway without losing at least someone if that snake-man stayed there.

Tarkus thought on his feet, and broke the first rule of combat. He threw his weapon away. Well, not his weapon. It was far too cumbersome and lacked aerodynamics. He plucked the mace from the fellow knight's hand, and leant out from behind the wall. Flicking his wrist as he flung his arm, the mace spun round crudely and smacked the serpent straight on its nose. Stunned and bloodied, it grabbed its face and took a step back, right off the platform. The last Tarkus saw of it, arms were flailing and its tongue was sticking out, hissing all the way down.

Tarkus took slow steps towards the set of four pendulums. They were once again packed tightly, but were more out of phase. By the time the first had stopped swinging, the fourth was already there. How were they to bypass this? Sunlight could be seen from the door on the other side. Had they come so far to fall at the final hurdle? Tarkus was resolved to not let them fail, they cannot fail after all the sacrifice. What would they tell the families of the men who fell? _Sorry we tried, we gave up halfway through and they died for nothing. _He wouldn't allow that to happen.

Walking, sauntering almost, Tarkus went forth, and his strength seemed to shroud him as a shield and no blade would touch him. He got to the fourth pendulum, swinging from his right, and leant off the platform and into the gap below, shield before him. His fall was broken by the pendulum crashing into his shield, pushing him back as his feet scaled and scrambled to stay on the walkway. But the blade was stopped dead in its tracks.

It was as if the gods had reached out and grabbed it. Tarkus was straining but the weight was held, and he called to his men. "Never will there be a better opportunity! Go, to Anor Londo!" They were all up in arms, roaring their leader on as they ran forward to push past him. They had to grab his chest and almost crawl over him, but one by one they got past. Last to go was Valcorius, who was now only inches from where Tarkus was standing. But the weight seemed to be growing, somehow, and Tarkus' feet were sliding ever backwards. All too soon, one of his boots met only thin air and one of legs fell from underneath him. He fell to his left, collapsing on the platform on the other side in an undignified sprawl. A cry escaped from his mouth as the pendulum fell forward with impossible velocity.

Valcorius was still smiling when it speared his face. The pointed end went right through his visor and came out the other side of his helmet. Tarkus hadn't thought it was that sharp, but here it had just gone through an inch of steel and bone. It lifted his whole body off the floor, dragging him around. The point was so densely wedged into his skull that he simply hung on the end like a hanging ornament. His feet dragged along the ground as it swung past, dripping blood in light drops, occasionally bits of brain and bone would fall also. The whole party was in stunned silence.

There was no respite to grieve, as the room suddenly exploded with foes, serpents pouring from the doorway and racing towards them. Tarkus turned and ran through the exit with his soldiers, yelling commands at the remainder of the party. Everyone was in a heightened state of adrenaline and Tarkus needed them to regain their composure. He bunkered his greatshield in the doorway and told his men to do the same. Four shields were arranged in such a way that they covered every available gap, an impenetrable gate.

After a few minutes, the serpents were pounding on said gate, and were likely to break it apart after a short while. Tarkus and the other knights made space and shoved their weapons through the shields, poking away at an enemy they couldn't see. There arms were burning and aching, but they carried on still. Eventually, the bangs became fewer and weaker until they stopped completely. Tarkus shifted his shield and broke the firm wall to see a massacre before him, serpents dead and dying lying on the floor and their shields caked in red. Content that the area was safe for the while, Tarkus permitted his men to take a well-earned rest under the sun, just outside the entranceway. There seemed to be no immediate threats.

Tarkus was furious with himself for losing a soldier. Nothing compared to the loss he had felt in previous campaigns, that was an area he very wary to dwell upon, but it hurt him all the same. "We may encounter worse." One of the knights said and sat down beside him. He removed his helmet and Tarkus saw it was Letholdus, his first lieutenant. Tarkus did the same, revealing a grizzly face with chiselled and strong features. There was no padding underneath his armour, his skin was like leather and needed no softening clothing. "Well I'm fucking the Princess of Sunlight if you're not the fallen god of war himself, Tarkus!" He cried jovially, glad that they were back in fresh air. "Is there nothing that you fear?"

"Nothing I have met so far." Tarkus grunted, taking a sip of water from a leather flask.

He adopted a more serious tone. "You're a fool then. Fear can be useful my friend, you're missing out on a vital asset. One day that may get you killed."

"If I find something that can kill me than I shall stand right back up and tip my hat to them." He said it with a completely flat tone. He turned to his comrade who shook his head with a wry smile and a disbelieving snort. "I might hold you to that if I knew you were serious. I don't think I know anyone who takes war more seriously, and perhaps knows the most about it, wouldn't you agree?"

"War will never change." Tarkus growled. "We may find a way to kill another on the other side of the world with a snap of our fingers or thinking hard enough. But the generals will always make the shit decisions, the soldiers will always get the blame and the commoners will piss themselves into a corner and then it's too late. It's almost like humans perform better when everything's already fucked. And then we all think our ideology is the true ideology and force it upon all others, in that broken way the human mind works. We will keep trying to break our fellow man, but you can't break a man like you break an animal. The harder you beat him, the stronger he will fight back. And some poor farmer's boy will get stabbed for it. So, yes, I would say I know quite a bit about conflict."

Letholdus smiled again and broke into a laugh. "For a big brute you are surprisingly intelligent. I guess I of all people should know that most of all." He stood up and stretched his arms, walking off towards some of the other Paradons.

Tarkus eyes the mountain that sat in front of him, its height and strong presence a constant reminder that it was another obstacle in their way. How many more lives would they spend to purchase a glimpse of Anor Londo. What would they do when they get there? Would the inhabitants be friendly? Tarkus had the nagging feeling that he was being played for a fool, chasing a carrot that was being dangled in front of him. By whom was still something he didn't know and would very much like to.

A clattering of steel and ragged screams made him leap to his feet and grab the hilt of his sword. He was about to stand in the doorway to the dungeon when an armoured knight of Berenike burst through it. He almost ran over the side when one of his knights yanked at his shoulder. His armour was stained and dented, certain parts missing or broken. The right side of his face was bloody from a gash above his eyebrow and the ornament on his helmet was gone. His face was actually quite young and handsome, a stubbly beard on his jaw that he had likely grown just to feel and look older. He might even still be a teen.

His eyes however, looked worn and rabid, both haggard and incredibly alert at the same time, likely seeing scarring sights. This was probably his first taste of conflict. Talk about being chucked in at the deep end. "You alright lad?" Tarkus asked him, lowering his sword to make himself appear less threatening. "If you are unhurt, ready yourself. We need as many men as we can get." To his surprise his brow furrowed and eyes turned angry.

"How dare you!" The boy cried indignantly. "I am a lord's son, and you shall address me properly. You didn't even come back to help, and my guards were killed by those fiends. You cannot treat me in such a way when you just got lucky and here unscathed. I had to suffer in that hellhole and here you stand acting so ind-"

The group may have gasped if Tarkus had let them react. He would allow for his condition, but Tarkus knew only one way to react to insubordination. He may be noble blood, but he was a soldier in this army, and therefore Tarkus was his officer. His hand shot out like a crossbow bolt, and grabbed at the youth's throat. Without even straining, he lifted him off the ground, man, armour and sword. Anger turned to fear as the menacing gaze of his helmet pierced him.

"You. Are just some kid. You may talk about war, quote strategies and tell me what to do in a certain situation, but you've never been trapped under a growing sense of desperation as the comrades you have been taught are your defence drop like mayflies in mating season. You may talk about death, but you've never truly killed something, seeing life slip from their eyes, realising that you have just ended a living, thinking creature. They had a mother, a father, a child, a spouse, a cousin. How they feel their death, that that life will never continue and you are the one that has caused misery to so many for a trivial reason that allows high lords, like you, to exploit me and every other soldier for their own selfish reasons. You may talk about loss, but you've never held your best friends head in your hands and seen him gasp his dying breath, splattering blood in your face. You expect something heroic, a strong speech, yet in truth it is disgustingly undignified while their mind forgets all composure and goes to instinct and hopelessness and sorrow. All I see is some shit scared, arrogant prick who has no true life experience. I don't presume your troubles, so don't fucking presume mind. And now you know I'm not your commander because I can swing a big fucking sword." There was nothing but silence around him as he was still holding the lad in one hand. Their commander had never opened up much, if at all, and they always knew that he bottled up some of the stress inside him. But now they knew the effect of innumerable campaigns and countless conflicts, that Tarkus had always lead men to the brink of despair and out again, and held their problems to himself.

He let him drop to the floor and gasp for breath. "We better go and fight, wouldn't want you lords to strain yourselves."

"Commander, what of reinforcements?" One of his Paradons cried.

"Fuck reinforcements. They're all dead. If there is anyone left, then we clear the path for them." Without another word, Tarkus shouldered his sword and went forth. Only seconds later a huge black sphere was flung from the roof, casting a dark shadow right above Willas. Tarkus reacted first and grabbed his gorget. He flung the knight in front of him and sent him sprawling just as the ball landed and exploded in flame. "Shame you grabbed me sir." Willas sighed. "I'll probably die far more painfully now. Maybe gravity, I've heard that's a whore." But Tarkus was already up and flight of stairs, aiming for the summit of the fortress. His soldiers were struggling to keep up with him as the Black Iron Knight was filled with newfound determination. He had reached the final level when another group of man-serpent guards stood in the way. "How bloody many of you are there!" Tarkus bellowed, charging into the fray. He was swinging his blade madly as his knights backed him up, exerting so hard he barely saw what was happening.

His foe dropped dead giving him a moment to get his bearings. That was when he saw the snake sneaking up on one of his men. Without a second thought he threw himself under the sword blow and wrapped himself around the knight and using his own body as a shield. The sword struck him hard in the back, a firm blow that dug into his armour. As far as he could tell, it hadn't pierced his vambrace but it had certainly shuddered him. With a flick of his shoulder, he hewed the snake's head off in one blow and let it drop to the floor.

With the last snake-man dead, they lowered there weapons and checked for any wounded. Tarkus couldn't see anything obvious, but it was difficult to tell whose blood was whose. He wiped some sweat from under his helmet and looked round around the room. There were several exits, but one stood out from the others. The largest archway that lead to a wide bridge. An enormous statue of over twenty feet stood there, in front of the doorway to Anor Londo. Tarkus raised a plated fist and held his sword high above his head. "Now men, to Anor Londo! To immortality!" They all responded with a resounding battle cry.

They ran forward to where the statue was standing. But as soon as they reached its legs, they saw that the doorway had been bricked up, a wall to come down and crush their dreams. But unbeknownst to them, the crushing was just about to begin. Tarkus noticed that the statue was actually wrought iron. Its arms fell down to its sides, and it turned to where the warriors were standing, revealing that it was in fact a mechanical golem. Without warning, it swung its hand down and caught a Paradon under its hand. Fingers clenched, and the knight was thrown right of the bridge as his screams got slowly quieter. They were caught in a vulnerable position, and the fight was out of their control. This could only end in disaster.

"Retreat!" Tarkus yelled, and raised his greatshield to block the way to his men. The Golem's axe scythed the air around head height, crashing in Tarkus' shield and knocking him off balance. It followed with a quick strike that thundered against his shield once again, but managed to wrap its fingers under it and flip him over, sending him arcing into the air. He crashed by the entrance way, barely conscious as another man was sliced right in two across the waist.

When Tarkus regained coherency, the Golem had returned to its resting spot and several bodies were strewn around it. Letholdus was lying next to him, short ragged breaths escaping from cracked and bloody lips. His right arm had been completely shredded as if he hadn't worn armour at all. There was only red bone with pitiful scraps of meat left. As Tarkus leaned over him, dizzy and nauseous, he turned his head and looked at his old friend. He tried to smile, but it just came out as a lopsided droop.

"I'm sorry Tarkus." He whimpered, his voice riddled with pain that made his voice sound ghostly. Tarkus could have, should have said something to just comfort him, that there was no need for apology. If anything, he was sorry for leading him to this hellhole. "I know…I know how this will end." He broke into a coughing fit that let a faint trickle of blood escape his mouth. Tarkus held his good hand and kneeled by his side. "Stay strong Letholdus. You've fought all your life, you can fight this now." Words he thought he would never say. It prompted a chuckle from Letholdus.

"I've seen it…a h-h…hundred times before Tarkus. Damn, why couldn't I…die with sword in hand?" And that's when the stern expression fell from his face and he began to cry. Here he was, this rock hard warrior, bawling like a child who's had their favourite toy taken away. "It-t-t…hurts..s-s-ssss." His body began to convulse rather violently as it desperately clung to life and blood gushed from the multiple wounds he had. Tarkus realised that by waking up, he had made him move and killed him quicker. "P-p-p-pleasssse…Tarkus." He looked into those pained eyes, and knew what he wanted. Tarkus slowly lowered his head to the ground and picked up his greatsword that was lying a few feet away. He aimed the point at his companion's neck, placing a hand tentatively on the pommel, ready to thrust. The blood on Letholdus' face was a light read as it mixed with the tears on his face. "Forgive me for…not returning home." He whispered in a strained voice that didn't seem to be aimed at Tarkus.

Tarkus put his weight on his sword and placed his friends' blade in his dead hands. He then strode back onto the bridge, bloody and broken but determined to continue where his men had failed. Or die alongside them. "Iron Tarkus and the Iron Golem." He cried, arms outstretched, daring the giant to attack. "One on one, let's settle this once and for all!" The Golem awoke and lumbered towards him. Tarkus charged and brought the sword down on its shin. To his surprise, it went about three inches in. It was good to know that his weapon could at least pierce its hide. The Golem's axe came down from above, but right on to the sturdy iron shield.

Tarkus slid under its legs and held his sword with both hands, throwing string lunges and chipping shards off its calves. An enormous hand reached down for him, perhaps to pick him up or crush him. Tarkus held the sword's point above his head and braced his arms. There was a tremendous pressure on his shoulders and arms, but he held firm. The greatsword had penetrated the giant's hand, and he needed to use all his might to yank it back out.

"Remember the names of the Paradons! Remember those that are your doom!" Tarkus yelled as he struck with another swipe that pierced its foot. "Merek!" He took a step back from a swing. "Torvan! Destrius! Francir!" Another swing. "Ashrin! Willas! Josef!" He put everything he had into a stab that went clean through the Golem's greaves so far the hilt almost touched the iron surface. Acting instinctively, Tarkus changed the grip on his sword and pushed upwards. There was so much strain that he was convinced the sword would snap. But somehow, this small human did the impossible as the behemoth tottered and wobbled. He managed to flip the Iron Golem over. "Valcorius!" He screamed as he removed his sword. "Letholdus!" He let his shield clatter to the ground, and grabbed his sword in both hands. As he ran towards the floored giant, he bellowed, and this emotionless automaton somehow knew fear. "TARKUUSS!" In full plate, he leapt into the air and brought his blade crashing down. It struck it in the core, shattering the glass and bone with comparable ease.

Tarkus stood upon the lifeless body of the golem, the sun shining an appreciative gaze upon him, making the sight miracle like, that the God of War had stepped down from the heavens to save mankind. He turned to the impassable mountain. "IS THERE NO OTHER?!" He thundered with a voice that threatened to knock Sen's Fortress to the ground. "WILL NO OTHER DARE FACE ME? IS THIS ALL MIGHTY ANOR LONDO CAN CONJURE UP?!" While his words sounded arrogant, Tarkus was in fact furious. Furious that all he had known had been destroyed chasing this ridiculous dream, this damned prophecy. He would carry on, but for the memory of the dead. Their sacrifice would not be in vain.

* * *

They were quick, Tarkus would give them that. When he had smashed the window, they had swarmed around him like bees to honey, and he had to use wide strokes to keep them at bay. They wore little more than silk, and it was like slicing through butter. The hard part was actually hitting them. Just as he thought that, one of the assailants ducked under his strike and thrust for his arm. It clanked off the thick iron without making so much as a scratch. The attacker then adopted a defensive position and held their scimitars in a cross as a blocking mechanism.

_Right, my turn, _Tarkus thought, and sent a heavy vertical strike. It cut right through the blades, the mere force shattering their arms. When the blade struck, it actually went right to their sternum, cutting two equal slices. Content that the others were dead, he climbed the ladder onto the rafters that seemed to be the only way across, barely thick enough for Tarkus' feet.

He hadn't got far before he was scissored between two of them. They both attacked simultaneously, but Tarkus swung in a great circle, cutting both of them. His foot nearly slipped and he balanced precariously on the edge. Just when he was about to recover, one of the robed fighters grabbed his leg as they fell. They were missing part of their arm, but still very much alive. Tarkus stamped his foot to shake off the warrior.

However, a section of his armour had come loose. It must have broken in Sen's Fortress, but he was sure he had checked everything upon arriving in Anor Londo. When could it have broken? Tarkus had no answer as a blade ran across his heel, severing the tendon and ripping his sinew. The pain was agonising as he realised he could no longer stand. Just before he fell, he felt only ashamed. _The mighty Iron Tarkus, killed by a cripple._

The impact was unlike anything he ever felt. It was a little while before he never felt again. His spine was shattered as he bounced around inside his armour, and he lay there completely paralysed. More of these white robed rogues gathered around him, inspecting his body. Well he was not dead yet. He intended to take down as many of these white-skirted bastards as possible. When one of them lifted his arm, he grabbed for his neck, trying to strangle him or shatter him. In the end, Tarkus knocked him off balance, and crushed his head under the immense weight of his armoured arm. Well his skull still seemed intact, maybe just blunt trauma. He was literally spitting blood, in a crazed frenzy of final exertion to go down surrounded by violence.

At least he had died fighting. But what happened next astounded him. They left. They simply left him there in his own blood. "How dare you?" Tarkus howled, or tried to, it came out mostly incoherently. But what came next was clear enough. "Kill me!" He shrieked. No response.

"KILL ME!" He cried again. "GRANT ME A WARRIORS DEATH!" They didn't so much as turn round.

"Kill me!" And now he was near tears. He reached for his sword, but couldn't find it, or even brush it. He moaned, a sad and resigned sound that would have brought onlookers to tears as it signaled utter defeat. For just like Letholdus, he too had failed to die with sword in hand.

Black Iron Tarkus, the legendary warrior, killed by a force even he couldn't tame.

* * *

**Note: Paradons are not in Dark Souls, the band and all its members are completely fictional and are based on the real life Myrmidons.**

**Also, removed the Foreword because it was kind of a pointless chapter.**

**Well it's finally done, and I hope it's worth it because this is the longest chapter yet. I'm not sure who to do next, so you'll just have to wait and see. Never hesitate to point out errors or room for improvement. I hope to finish the next one before you all go hollow.**


	10. The Embraced Psychopath

_You've got an evil wicked way of saying I love you-Five Finger Death Punch_

The girl's sad eyes looked into his own longingly, with a hint of desperation and sadness, but mostly confusion and pain. There was also depression, why did this have to happen to her of all people? But longingly, as if he could save him now, still a hope of life or perhaps jealousy. A barrage of emotions and myriad of feelings. Whatever it was, it was only a few moments before it was gone.

He stood there for a time, like a painting. Her arms were wrapped around his, as if they were lovers holding each other, except that his left hand was aggressively clasped around her top, now the only thing stopping her from falling to the floor. His right hand gripped his weapon, the point lodged firmly under the girl's armpit, severing a rather substantial artery. This hand was red and slippery making the handle of his shotel soap like. He let go of the girl allowing her to fall in an undignified heap.

If he had not rolled to his left then, a mace head bigger than his chest may well have replaced his skull. It cracked the church floor sending splinters of marble into the air. The situation had not progressed as he had hoped. He had caught the firekeeper unawares while she was praying, and hoped to be gone before anyone had noticed him. Unfortunately, the interior of the building was crawling with foes.

A heavy knight of Berenike was the one that stood before him now and there were also several Balder knights making their way towards him, and a Channeler on the upper level who had made his frustration known at the beautiful maiden's death. Clearly he and his master had had other designs for her. A victim of ambition she would seem to be. His only hope now was that Patches had kept his word and secured an escape route for him.

Lautrec trusted no other human, and was particularly wary of 'Trusty' Patches. No one survives long in Lordran without shedding their benevolence, and the fact that he was on his own was also worrying. He therefore couldn't survive with strength in numbers and must have sinned to save his skin at some point, or he could have betrayed his companions for his own gain. Or he preferred to hunt prey alone. Unfortunately, Lautrec wasn't given the luxury of choice and his life was being juggled in a fool's hands. Whether their encounter outside the church was a suspicious convenience or a terrible error in judgement remained to be seen. His first question of 'Are you a cleric?' didn't fill him with confidence.

He chanced a quick glance to his left and saw that the elevator to safety had its gates firmly locked shut. While considering his escape routes one of the Balder knights had reached him, rapier hurtling towards him. Lautrec spun out of the way of the thrust and hooked his shotel over the small buckler. The shield was pitifully small and was little match for his technique as he ripped the left hand off the knight, and followed with a quick hook that tore out its throat.

It wasn't soon before Lautrec was outnumbered. He used his dagger to deflect a few blows at him, but was moving backwards constantly which let the enemy come onto him. He dug the point into the sword hand of another assailant when Patches appeared at the top of the stairs, spear pointing further upwards. "This way, friend!" He cried, a smile on his face despite their circumstance. Was he so lackwit that the entire world was a playground to him? He better get serious and soon or Lautrec would happily torment him in the afterlife.

Lautrec lifted his legs high to avoid a low swipe from a foreign object and dug a cheeky heel in his assailants face before hurtling up the steps. Patches was a mere five strides in front of him, twisting down a narrow corridor and into a larger square room, overlooking the church floor. The pair turned the heads of the Channeler and several hollows who took a moment to just adjust to the fact that the fleeing adventurers had seemingly popped up from nowhere.

Patches took opportunity of this moment and darted beside the Channeler and through a passage on the left. Lautrec took a swipe at a nearby hollow, the dry paper skin giving way to his shotel. He then cartwheeled by Seath's servant and followed Patches down the hallway. He saw the thief standing at the base of some stairs. "Up here, there's an escape route. I've left some sweet pickings downstairs, catch up with you later! Heard there's another firekeeper along there too."

And with that Patches had vaulted over the side and dropped below. It was the most bizarre sequence of events but Lautrec had no time to dwell on it, with several armed and dangerous attackers hot on his heels. He didn't like how Patches had disappeared so conveniently, but he had little choice now, and if there was another firekeeper along here, it would be rich pickings for Lautrec. The knight took a handful of steps before encountering a room with another set of stairs. Funny, he seemed to be going further upwards and he hadn't seen any other exits from the church. But if anywhere had nonsensical architecture, it was Lordran, and it may indeed descend again. It wasn't exactly like he could go the other way. A few more steps and he was up the stairs and facing the blank wall of the back of a prison cell.

"Ah fuck." He said aloud and instinctively turned towards the other door.

A hulking mass of flesh and iron stood before him. Lautrec's survivalist instincts kicked in, and he slammed the cell door, automatically locking shut. The hollowed warriors slow minds soon realised that he was now inaccessible and no longer a threat, and so trudged back down the stairs.

It was funny, how often people had been trying to throw him into cells and now he had walked into one of his own free will. He assumed Patches would strip his body of trinkets when he was dead and that had been his plan all along. And that bait with the firekeeper. A simple trick that Lautrec had no time to contemplate, he relied on instinct and his mission hugged the very core of his being. He had heard the word and something inside him switched on, a determination not to disappoint, although, of course, it was not the main driving force to where he has ended up. There was an intelligence behind Patches' smiling eyes, intelligence and ruthlessness. If that wretch ever dared cross his path again, Lautrec would not have any hesitation skinning him alive. The golden knight inspected the lock and saw that it was in fact rather old and of simple design. He should be out in a day and a half at most. And then no one would be safe.

* * *

She just sat there, her very existence mocking him. He had watched her for many days now, and her routine was minimal. The humanity fed in the bonfire seemed to sustain her, and she did very little with her time. She barely moved at all. Any attempt to talk to her resulted in a blank stare and silence, her penance for disgracing the gods it would seem. Well Lautrec intended to do nothing but disgrace the gods. How unfortunate for her to have fallen right into his lap. She was beautiful if nothing else, despite her position. Yet inferior to the beauty Lautrec had seen. This harlot was an affront to everything he held dear.

He came and went as the days passed, always coming back to stop and rest and watch. He noted the coming and goings of everyone and everything, being stern with those who disturbed him so that they chose not to approach him again.

Once again, he found himself alone in this part of Firelink Shrine. He had spent enough time waiting. The time had come now to act. Slowly, almost tentatively, he took small steps towards the bars of her cage. She stared at the floor as usual, and the Slumbering Dragoncrest Ring ensured he reached her completely silently. He had a final doubt in his plan, a fear of failure but also a far more natural fear of pain. Self-preservation tried to raise its voice, but mindless fanaticism beat it to the punch. He would rather flay himself than fail.

The parrying dagger was sharp. A golden finger reached round his side and undid the straps that held his breastplate together. Carefully, he searched for the perfect place to insert the dagger. He tried to keep as parallel as possible to his ribs as so not to damage any of his organs. With a precise stab, he had almost cut a thin slice of flesh from his chest, the dagger deep enough to stick inside him. Lautrec then theatrically threw himself to the ground, breathing heavily and being sure to smother the blood all over himself.

The firekeeper raised her head to the commotion as surprise and curiosity hit her in equal measure. A gut feeling told her to stay away as she had always done, but there was a time before this eternal damnation when she would have helped someone in need without question. She finally gave in to her compassion and moved towards the knight to inspect his injuries. She could always offer him essence of the bonfire, he was clearly too wounded to make it up the stairs to the flames.

With the speed and cunning of a snake, Lautrec's arm shot out as steel fingers clasped around the maiden's neck. A violent jerk smashed the girl against the bars of her prison as if she were to be forced through them. She struggled to release herself but she may as well have been struggling against a ring of iron as the sinister image loomed over her. Lautrec pointed his shotel at the top of her head and then ran the blade across her neck, caressing the underside of her chin with it. An ounce of pressure and he had drawn a perfect line of blood from a shallow cut, letting it run down his arm as his own wounds fell freely upon the firekeeper's face.

Gasping for breath and still squirming, the firekeeper writhed and panicked as she desperately tried to escape the death grip. "Well, well. At last, you pay for your sins, puterelle." Lautrec hissed as he toyed with her. She took once last exasperated look into the blackness of his visor as Lautrec drew his sword across her. With a slow and steady hand, he forcefully decapitated her, requiring all his strength to rip through hard tissue and solid bone, using the inside curve of his shotel. Blood spurted all around him, creating a hellish image of the menacing knight making a fresh kill.

The soul of the firekeeper fell before him, and he pocketed it swiftly. He would rather she stayed dead. Not another moment had passed before he was off.

* * *

The darkness made the cathedral of Anor Londo a very eerie place. Although it meant more shadows to conceal himself in. Two men flanked him, waiting for their next victim to unwittingly fall into their lap. There was the sealer, a scowling fellow who was quick to anger and struggled to conceal his thoughts. Lautrec suspected a dark cloud hung over him, and unlike the embraced knight had been unable to forsake his past. Then the warrior, silent and watchful. He had fought with the phalanx and had learnt disciplined and co-operative warfare. The horrors of battle may have left him reserved, or perhaps it was simply his manner. Either way, he had been able to ensnare them into his cause, as they too had found salvation in Fina when they were lost. But while she appeared to them as a mother, she appeared to him as a lover.

The city hadn't always been dark. In fact, it was the sunniest place Lautrec had ever seen. But he had come face to face with that slut Gwynevere and the dismantling of Gwyn's kingdom seemed at hand. It was almost too easy. But she had vapourised before his eyes, and _his_, sorry _her_,voice had spoken. "I can smell the fear in your speech!" Lautrec had threatened, but he had been unable to find where the craven was cowering, so he was stuck to deal with these mongrels, these servants who do his dirty work for him.

Well, Lautrec waited and laughed at their pathetic attempts to apprehend him. Lautrec looked to his companions. Yes, they looked like they had plenty more fight in them.

A low moan echoed throughout the hall as another spirit emerged at the entrance. He readied his weapons and smiled to himself. How many times will these lambs rush to slaughter?

* * *

His leg twitched. Come to think of it, it ached as well. He couldn't feel his other leg. Breathing was a chore that caused a stabbing pain in the back of his throat. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth as the bleeding and haemorrhaging inside of him searched for an orifice to escape from. He lost everything to get here. Well, almost everything.

The maimed knight had dragged himself all the way to the balcony, in a last ditch attempt to reach...well he wasn't really sure. Perhaps he felt that the salvation would be found up here, at the peak of the world. But now he was done, finished and crushed beneath the boots of the world.

Lautrec couldn't move, propped up against the wall. He had left some blood behind as he crawled along the floor, and the pool around him was slowly getting larger. He had lost control of several nerves, resulting in his toes and fingers spasming uncontrollably. There was no hope of life now, he was beyond rescue. His body at least, his soul would ascend to be beside his beloved, the only thing that kept him going. He had failed, yes, and he would never forgive himself. But Fina truly loved him, and would recognise his efforts which had surpassed anyone else who may have been in her service. She would not be disappointed in him.

He could remember, what he had and what he had given up to be here now. Selfish things, terrible things. Looking back at her in the flames at her desperate face. She called to him, appealed to him and cried out with everything she had left. The child in her arms cried and bawled as it didn't understand what was happening, but knew at least that something was wrong. He had stared at them threw the fire and turned away, throwing down the last torch as he did.

And then the screams of the adherents and maidens and priests. They used to haunt him, chasing him through waking dreams. It was only her embrace that would soothe him. There were few who put up a fight, most had tried to appeal to his reason or sense of humanity. That was when he had ripped their humanity from them. He had become an assassin of the innocent, and where she pointed her finger he came down as the fall of the axe. He had carved through life with the blood of the guiltless and all for one being. He had become ruthless and cruel, pitiless and a figure of nightmares, hated and feared by all but one.

Lautrec finally smiled to himself. A price worth paying.

He could feel it now, a slight surge in his chest as he wanted to let go but his body tried its best to keep his heart beating. A flash of light that nearly blinded him. A shapely silhouette stood there, slowly walking towards him.

Lautrec nearly bolted upright but found he had not the strength. She was here, she had come for him and finally he could be at peace and they would hold each other until the end of time. Every minute without her was anguish, and the deep yearning inside of him was almost sated.

She reached out her hand and brushed his finger tips. He strained himself to clasp her hand and hold her, working through already shredded muscle to feel her touch. But he could not reach it, she remained painstakingly out of range. He looked for her angelic face and still found her smiling. She looked him dead in the eye, and took a step backwards.

Lautrec's face fell and he endeavoured to stand and touch her. And then the unthinkable happened. she turned her back, and walked away. Leaving him in darkness.

"No!" Lautrec cried, as he some how found the power to lean on one knee. "Fina, please! No, Fina, please, come back! FINA!" Surely this wasn't happening, this was just some awful hallucination as he lost more blood. He fell on his face as he tried to follow her, and then inexplicably began to cry.

The tears diluted the blood on his face. He thrust one last shaking hand forward and then lost all stability. Everything, all he had done was for nought, all the deaths and sufferings. He had done it for her and now that he was no longer useful, she had discarded him, thrown him out like rubbish. At the last of his life, Lautrec's sorrow turned to anger and wrath, rising with strength he did not know he had, raising a shotel high a stumbling towards the goddess' image.

But in the end, his legs gave out, and he bled and breathed his last, alone on cold, hard marbled floor, his love gone, leaving him to face the blackness of the void alone.

* * *

**Well, it's been awhile, but here is the next installment. **

**I would definitely check out MenasLG's deviantart, his 'Lautrec doesn't need bonfires' picture is what inspired my portrayal of him. **

**The next chapter involves a very famous scholar in a treacherous city, and his adventures after. Now, do not disturb my research! **


	11. The Astute Sorcerer

_Ignorance is the curse of God; knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven-William Shakespeare_

"So as you can see, a catalyst's core components largely determines its effectiveness and attuned specialities." Just as he had finished, the clock chimed to signal an hour's end and all the students leapt from behind their desks, layered in steps so that they could all have a clear view of the lecture area. First year theory was one of the most monotonous segments of their studies, resulting in pupils keen to leave the classroom. Several of them languidly sloped off, the inactivity and boredom of several minutes earlier oozing into their movements now.

How Logan loathed these menial tasks when his mind could be put to such better use. Yet, the institute had asked him to cover a lesson, and his contract forced him to oblige. His usual final year students were currently in their assessments, and had leave of study meaning there were no classes for him to teach.

The College of the Twilight Star was the most prestigious, most well-funded and (many would say) most elitist of all the sub-schools of the Dragon School of Vinheim. It was were the very best of the magically attuned, and the children of the richest and most influential public figures went. Master Logan was a well-respected sorcerer who many imagined would eventually gravitate to Prime Minister of Vinheim. Logan, however, had starkly contrasting plans. His field research was beginning to get dated, the cotton wool cocoon of the classroom wrapping him in an unpleasant lifestyle of routine and lectures. Logan yearned to stretch his legs again and travel to the further reaches of the world, recalling his adventures in many countries.

His mind was still racing as he left the college to find a nearby tavern, hoping for a spot of dinner. The tall spires of the Goldpeak College could be seen in the distance, the glass observatory towers of the School of Mysteries a close rival beside them. To his left, a wide road led to the Drakeblade Academy. It was here that Vinheim's ceremonial warriors were schooled in the arts of sword fighting and the augmentation of magic weaponry.

Logan's usual, The Sorcerer's Victory was within sight. But, the thought of expeditions had left Logan hungry for something different. However minor it may seem, a simple change of scenery may well suffice, and he walked for another twenty minutes down several streets. He eventually came along a smouldering ruin, crumpled wooden beams and scorched brick in an undignified heap. This was the Library of the Pyromancers, a relic of years gone by. The sorcerers had thrown out the pyromancers for their 'heathen' art, and torched them with the very flame they sought to control in a cruel use of irony. The library's ruins remain as a testament and a warning to all those who dare question the might of sorcery. Quenching Day is held every year to signify the overthrowing of the pyromancers and their banishment. Still, paranoia always ran deep in Vinheim, and phantom fire mages were seen in every corner.

Logan had mixed feelings upon this matter. While it was true that pyromancy had no place in an institute of magical learning, he felt the treatment of the pyromancers was unnecessarily cruel and barbaric. Again, caught up in his thoughts, Logan happened upon another pub. The Addled Wizard it was called, and looked very much like a drinkers place. Yet Logan found excitement in it all and went in regardless. There were a few people inside, but not too many as to be crowded and Logan had soon found a table and asked for a plate of steamed meat, fried eggs and mead.

As time went by at his table, the population of the pub gradually swelled, its occupant's average age slowly decreasing. Soon the place was packed with students, all celebrating the conclusion of their exams. One particularly drunk lad had made his way over to Logan's table. "Old Big Hat!" He slurred, nearly spilling his drink as he recognised him. Logan was well aware of his nickname, but very few people said it to his face. "It's real good, real good to see you. Ale?" The student tipped his filthy looking mug towards him, leaking a bit of the drink on the table.

"No thank you." Logan replied, hoping that this boy would either walk away or pass out so that he could be left in peace.

"Shame." The student answered, giving a lopsided grin. "Honestly, I reckon, I aced those examinafranation…examinanon…exam-in-ations. I'm gonna be the best bloody sorcerer you've ever seen Big Hat, just you watch." He continued, just as he slipped while leaning on the table, nearly falling over. Logan flashed him a sarcastic 'that's nice' smile and resumed eating. "You know what, I'll go buy you a drink." The pupil declared and began to make a beeline for the bar. However, his clumsy feet misguided him right into another customer, sending alcohol flying into the air.

"Watch where you're going you fucking twat!" The man bellowed at him.

"Oi, calm the fuck down mate." The student responded. "It was a damn accident."

Several more profanities were exchanged, before fisticuffs ensued. Soon the whole bar area had erupted into a mass brawl. Logan took this as his cue to exit, leaving a generous tip in the hands of a nearby waitress and going out the back door. This led to a garden, but Logan vaulted the fence and was in the main street. Night had fallen thick and fast over Vinheim, only mage lights illuminating street corners. A man stood on almost all these corners.

Infiltration sorcery had made being a spook of Vinheim a lucrative trade, especially in a city rife with plots and betrayals. While Vinheim claimed to be a place of learning, it was just as much a den of upper class villainy, with political and monetary subterfuge the very life and soul of Vinheim beneath the surface. Students cheated and gambled, professors ridiculed and disadvantaged their colleges and rumours and conspiracies circulated and changed every day. The Vinheim spooks provided a lot of these services, from theft to assassination and made a large profit from it. The very best were known as padfoots, for like the mythical dogs, they were something rarely seen and greatly feared.

Logan had the horrible feeling that he had outstayed his welcome on the streets of Vinheim, and that beating a hasty retreat to his quarters may well be the best option. It was eerily quiet, until he moved a little further down the street where the loud and slurred voices of celebrating students could be heard in the distance.

He hurried himself back to his property, Logan wasn't exactly keen on hassle at this time of night. Only outsiders thought Vinheim's fairly low crime rate was an indication of its safety. Most felonies went unreported as they usually helped someone in power, the peacekeepers being in the pockets of even the lowest ranking ministers. Logan caught flickering shadows out of the corner of his eye. He ground to a halt and surveyed his surroundings.

"…that as may be, but I was given no forewarning of the conditions of my job. An increased bounty would be the least…" A seething, hissing, possibly female voice could just be heard.

Logan had to take a few steps forward, and then saw that there were two figures conversing in a sprawling alley, the buildings nearly climbing over each other. The subject of conversation was clearly sensitive, but the two speakers were getting increasingly heated, their voices raising to nearly the volume of regular talking. Logan was keen to get home, but couldn't help but eavesdrop a little longer.

"Then you have fulfilled your purpose." The taller fellow concluded in a deep and emotionless tone. In an instant he had raised a hand crossbow and unloaded a bolt into the face of the other figure. He was sent sprawling against the pavement, limbs flying up in the air. The other man gave the body a quick prod and left in a hurry.

_Yes, _thought Logan. _Definitely time to get out of Vinheim._

* * *

"Now look where adventuring has got you." Logan muttered under his breath. He was completely lost within this brick prison, and how he got there seemed the strangest sequence of events. Several kingdoms, a few hundred miles and a bandit's arrow in the spine later and he was off chasing some ludicrous prophecy.

It wasn't really like there was a choice of paths, he certainly couldn't return to the civilised world. Undead were the scourge of the living, and hollows were a big problem to the extent that many nations had collapsed under the weight of undeath.

At least he was able to explore the land of the lords. While Lordran was more famous as a land of miracles, ancient sorceries were also buried deep within these lands. The lost kingdom of Oolacile was said to have developed magic that manipulated the subtle essences of life rather than channelling the power of the soul. And let us not forget the very origin of sorcery, the work of Duke Seath. Logan would consider seeing his sacred archives the greatest of honours; to get a hold of the recorded knowledge that has been noted down since the origin of the flame.

Though, this was not what he had had in mind when he thought of adventuring, stuck in cramped and dingy corners of an equally dingy fortress. Water trickled down the masonry and moss clung to a room's edges. The air was cold and damp, stifling his breathing, giving the inevitable feeling of claustrophobia. He peeked round the corner of a doorway he had come to. The air rushed past not a few inches from his nose as a boulder of considerable mass went hurtling past him. Logan was a little flustered with coming within a few finger's length of death, but soon regained himself. He decided to assess the situation and take this steadily.

Several boulders flew past him, and Logan was able to deduce that they were on a timer. He also believed that if there was a defence mechanism in place that the path ahead was of some importance. He made a short sprint to the next doorway which he was very relieved to find and dashed through it. A quick scan of the room made Logan realise that there was a protrusion on the wall opposite another passage. He poked his head round the corner once again to clearly see a pressure plate upon the floor.

His hawk eyes didn't stop there, he even noted a moving shadow that he assumed was an adversary. He readied an alluring skull that he had found, a strange device that distracted dim-witted opponents. Logan threw it at the floor, and hid in the other end of the room, his catalyst ready. It only took a few seconds for a man-serpent to charge recklessly into the room and come to a grinding halt as three arrows hit it in the chest and arm. He slowed, but did not fall.. His slow brain tried to deduce the situation of how he ahd heard a noise that seemingly no one had made. It was then Logan cast a Soul Spear that penetrated right into the serpent's skull and killed it instantaneously. _Surprise, _Logan couldn't help but think, but he was not one for jokes on serious matters, and killing another living creature seemed a serious matter.

He was just about to continue when the shuffling of feet made him turn around. He barely had time to blink as the flat of the sword hit him square on the forehead.

* * *

_Test LXVII: With careful study of the dynamics involved, said subject was able to withstand the crystallisation. However, further refining is required, due to the frontal lobe interference; physical effects stabilised. Thus, Test LXVII can be a potential incredible leap forward. The soul binding energy can be transferred to a physical manifestation, preventing the soul tearing effect seen in Tests IX-XIX and exhibiting physical symptoms, albeit at a lower intensity. Upon beginning, subject exhibited__... _

"Oh, damnation!" Logan cried, as he squinted at the page. The light was thinning, and the words seemed to slip from betwixt the bindings. It hadn't helped that he had not rested for several days, and his eyes had a paper cut feeling. As an undead, he needn't eat, but even the dead must rest every once in a while.

It seemed like only yesterday he was trapped in that cell. Or perhaps it was only yesterday? He had seemed to lose track of time and all sense of purpose in this place. But the sacrifices were well worth it. Yes, it had seemed odd that they would spare his life, twice at that. The servants of Seath may well be commanded to respect sorcerers, they are effectively followers of his ways after all. However, upon reading these books, he thought that they may well have had a much more sinister and much messier intention.

Yet, Logan still felt in absolute awe. Due to these books, he had been able to crystallise soul magic, and use it ethereally. He had actually blind crystals to the power of the soul, an accomplishment that would never have even been comprehended back a Vinhelm. Now that Logan thought back to life in the city, he could see how stifled he was. He would never have had this intrepid journey, and made such a profound discovery. In a way, becoming undead was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Anyway, he wanted not to dwell on his old life, in sad old Wimhelm. He turned suddenly, looking wild eyed to the source of the whispering. Those damn voices, still pestering him. Were they trying to sabotage him? He had come so far, and they would want to stop him now? "Shut up, you curs!" Logan cried. "May the Lords take you!" He wasn't going to let them bother him at this point.

Logan was determined to read on, these tomes held the greatest of secrets. If they were to be believed, and Logan had no reason to doubt them, Seath was wrapped in crystals. _How glorious it would be to be wrapped in crystals,_ Logan thought. He could encase himself, enhance himself. He would be even more in touch with the essence of his soul. Imagine if he returned to Wimhall all shrouded in crystals. How Logan would have loved to see their faces.

Logan's eyes fell back upon the page. He read for a little while more, until the strain on his pupils became unbearable. The words, those damn words. They were mocking him as he struggled more and more to see, they danced around him, hiding in corners and under folds in his clothing. Those bloody pixies, they would deny him access to the world's greatest knowledge would they. He would show them, curse these foul letters! He howled and stood up, staff in hand. He only stopped himself at the last second, realising he was moments away from frying the book to cinders. That would be most dreadful.

He could take the book home, back to Winfall. It didn't take him long to reason against it. After all, it was he, not them, who dared come in search for higher mysteries. Why should he give anything to those worthless gutter rats in the backstabbing shithole of a city? To hell with Windtall and all behind its walls! He was here, now, and knowledge is power. Power is knowledge.

He forced himself to read on. And on. And farther on. Until he came upon Test CXIV. He drifted to the bottom of the page, where some clear words were underlined. _Total Success. _Logan nearly danced with glee. The book seemed to draw him in and fill every pore and embed itself in every fibre of his body. His jaw quivered as he went to breath. _Of course. No distractions. _Ever so slowly, Logan began to peel off his robes, removing every article delicately until nothing was left but his wiry frame, undergarments and dear hat. He had found it. All those so called sorcerers in Yinecall, he would surpass every single one. He had made the final great discovery. Wide eyed and frothing at the mouth, Logan took a decisive step forward, and left the room.

* * *

**That took much longer than expected. To any of those who are worried, I don't have writer's block or lost faith/interest in my story. I had mock exams recently and began to devote more time to revision. However, I have a short break coming up and I plan to make up lost writing time then. I hope you enjoy this chapter at least. **

**Next chapter will be...*looks at checklist*...Undead Prince Ricard! Hope you like this in the meantime. **


	12. The Intrepid Prince

_It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to-J.R.R. Tolkien_

Ricard shifted his weight onto his back foot, poised to strike with the buckler high, level with his neck. He flicked his wrist as he brought his sword arm up, the flexible steel bending in the air and whipping back into position and settling firmly as Ricard held his arm steady. Although his opponent couldn't see, Ricard narrowed his eyes in concentration, subtly eying up what stood before him. The goblin-like creature reared up and leapt towards him, snarling and growling with malice. It knocked Ricard's rapier at an angle, and jumped high, spinning two worn and rusted blades as it did.

It landed, both smashing onto the ground as Ricard leapt back. It was almost as tall as Ricard, but almost twice as wide, a mountain of muscle. Its nose was nearly non-existant, just two slits in its face while its ears protruded at right angles with torn and leathery lobes. Its jaw fell open to reveal dozens of tiny white saw blades of teeth. Its tongue lolled out of the corner of its mouth. It went for another attack, arms swinging wildly. One landed harmlessly on his buckler, the other didn't even make it from its side. Ricard had made one, precise movement and pressed his rapier forth. There was barely any resistance as it went cleanly through the goblin's neck. Ricard pulled it out slowly and wiped it on his surcoat as the goblin gurgled blood and collapsed.

Another knight yanked his claymore free from another beast's skull. She propped up her helmet and wiped her brow. Deciding that she was still too hot, she removed the whole helmet to reveal a face that was far too fair for the battlefield. Adala was one of the rarest of breeds, one of the few female knights ever to have existed in Astora. She had proven her proficiency at arms, and being of noble stock was able to take the path to knighthood. There was a great amount of opposition, but in the end she broke enough noses and won enough hearts to be anointed with prayer and sprinkled in the ceremonial oils of the Way of White.

_And now she had thrown it all away to come with me, _Ricard thought. She caught his gaze and flashed an innocent smile that would have made any man forget she had brutally disembowelled several enemies. She strolled over towards him. "No one back home would have believed that creatures such as this even exist." Adala said, although it sounded more to Ricard like singing. She had a voice like honeyed dates that hit the ear all too sweetly. "This land is uncharted by humans." Ricard responded. "It is of little surprise to me."

Adala only gave an amused smile, finding his seriousness very amusing. She took a moment to take in her surroundings. They were in a ravine maybe thirty feet wide, the top around twenty feet high. She could tell they were high up from the chill and thinness of the air. The edges of the sky were pockmarked with orange, indicating it was just about sunset. Adala gave a longing sigh that seemed to suggest she would love to see such a sight in one of the most beautiful and gods forsaken places of the world. They had been blessed with rare good weather, the clouds staying off for now, and hopefully for a while to come.

A few hundred yards onwards and they had reached another watchtower. The whole mountain was a fortress, chokepoints cordoned off with gates and towers dotting the landscape. There were several small castles along the way, with the chief keep near the summit, at least as far as Ricard could tell from the viewpoint they had passed a little while ago. The far north was indeed a strange place, this violent race of goblins seemingly its only intelligent inhabitants. They certainly seemed a race focussed on conquest, signs of aggressive expansion dotted the land where structures were burned out and belongings looted.

Likely, they were marauders who had come from further north and gutted what had been an organised settlement. Ricard struggled to believe that they were capable of the defences seen here. They seemed to know only violence, and were good at it. They sent the weaker and more feral creatures in first, barely armoured but frothing at the bit to throw themselves into the fray. Then their rank and file soldiers were fitted with thick and irregular plates grafted and patched together. Their backs were left exposed, giving the impression that they forbade any retreat; they would always face the enemy.

As the sky darkened, Ricard hastened to find shelter. He didn't feel like suffering the rain and cold in hostile territory. Adala vaulted a low rock edge and clambered up the side, scanning everything around her with a hawk-like stare. "There." She pointed sixty degrees to their right, up a steep and gravel layered path. "A sally port. The door's lying open, goes straight to a courtyard, then the main keep." Ricard rested a hand on his rapier in his scabbard, and gave a slight nod.

"Sooner we get inside the better. We've stayed long enough in such a desperate place." Adala said with bated breath.

Ricard turned to her and, although she couldn't see it behind his visor, raised an eyebrow. "I didn't ask you to come with me." Ricard retorted.

Adala gave a wry smile. "That's not what I meant. I meant…the sooner you find what you're looking for, the better."

He shrugged. "I'm not looking for anything." She smiled again, clearly she didn't believe him. It wasn't really true anyway. His reasons: for exploration, to be a pioneer, for the sheer thrill of adventure. But in truth, he felt a higher calling, something that drove him to find his destiny. Something…ineffable. Something he couldn't find in Astora. Maybe it was just his longing for adventure. Or maybe it was the will of a god. This might just be some giant soul searching journey. Yet, Ricard was glad for it, and determined to find what it truly was.

And why Adala was here with him, well he couldn't answer that. She was a household guard, and sworn to him, yes. But he had no authority over her in this matter, and only two others had agreed to come with him, and there ends had been grisly and enough to turn any soldier back. The rest decided to stay with the family in Astora. However seriously she took her duty, there was more than loyalty keeping her here. Not that Ricard knew what it was and had made no progress in discovering.

They had made it to the sally port, a seemingly ancient door rotted by wood bugs. It nearly fell off its hinges as Ricard edged it open. He readied his weapon and took a few tentative steps inside. He gestured for Adala to follow him in, moving each foot slowly. She was about to say something but he shushed her almost immediately. He waited for what seemed an age before the shadows began to move. The goblins peeled themselves from the edges of the courtyard and organised themselves before the two knights. A wall of pikes glistened before them, a row of crossbow a few ranks back. Sword wielding skirmishers stood on the flanks.

Ricard unshouldered his bow, and notched an arrow, and muttered something to himself. "Not here. Not now" The phalanx edged towards him, the heads of the pikemen writhing in their bloodlust, grunts and howls emerging from the ranks. Saliva dripped from their open mouths, and many beat their breastplates in fury. They were mere yards from them now, fifty of them versus just those two. Without warning and with barely any drawback, Ricard loosed an arrow. It hit a front liner right under its masked helmet, burying itself above the collar bone. It snapped straight to attention and fell face first. For at least five seconds, everything was silent.

Then they all erupted in hoots and screams, and broke rank, charging and flailing. And that was when the howl was heard.

The scream was so bloodcurdling, so ear splitting that every living thing fell to their knees and cowered, hands over their ears. It seemed to shake the ground which they stood upon, and loose rocks tumbled from the walls. Finally, the cry ended, and Ricard and Adala dared to remove their hands. The goblins were all gone, scattered into nooks and crannies, some even frantically scrambling over the walls.

Adala turned to leave, but Ricard remained with his feet firmly planted where he was. There was, something, beyond tangible reasoning. A…feeling, that made him move his feet forward. Ricard pressed on with newfound determination, Adala with no choice but to follow, deaf to her protests. Now she could see the corpses. Bodies littered the floor nearer the keep, and as Ricard pushed open the great wooden doors open, bodies of man and beast lay as equals. Profane drawings were splattered on the walls in dried blood, and heads were arranged in circular patterns. There were three grand staircase before, all leading in opposite directions. Ricard paused for a second. "This way." He decided finally, and went up the left staircase. As Ricard continued, Adala felt an increasing chill in his bones and now even she could hear a faint whisper on the edge of perception.

_Ricard. Onwards…_

Adala had decided that enough was enough, and that there were clearly sinister forces at work here. "Ricard, please! There's something wrong, something's amiss. Please Ricard, please! Come back to me!" She tugged at his arm and beat at his chest. He pushed her away, and then kicked in the door they had come to.

A statue of a great bearded man stood before them, carved into the wall. A large bosomed woman stood to his right, and a skinny girl with an ornate headdress to his left. Above him, a heavily armed warrior with the largest sword and shield he had ever seen, all wreathed in lightning. Ricard rushed to the statue and fell by the plaque at its feet. He scanned it for a moment. "Lordran!" He cried finally, in an excited fashion where words spilled out of his mouth. "Adala, I've found it, my destination! The land of the lords, that's where I must go! But, but why? It's near inaccessible, and now a land of the lost and exiled? A place for undeath! Why-"

"_Because you are already dead._" A voice finally sneered. Both Ricard and Adala turned to confront a nightmare. The hideous shape of a feral elk with jagged teeth and sharp antlers. Its arms were horribly oversized, thick, skinless muscle protruding from a bulky and also skinless torso. It stood upon two legs, blackened stumps that seemed barely usable. Its yellow eyes pierced the air. When it spoke again, its mouth did not move.

"_You have been marked, Prince Ricard of Astora. The Dark Beast hath seen your greatness, and planted its taint upon your soul. Only the most powerful souls will do Prince Ricard, and now I have endeth your great journey here, I have crushed thine destiny and will continue the Dark Beast's work. Cower in fear, for struggling is a futile action._"

The creature reared up as Adala readied her claymore. The beast moved impossibly fast, and tore her arm asunder before she could even move. Her flesh was shredded, her armour providing seemingly no resistance. Crossbow wielding goblins appeared at the creature's side, wearing skulls as helms and eyes bright red, their bodies surrounded in a blackened mist. Ricard grabbed Adala and pulled her up. Her right arm was naught but bone with minimal scraps of flesh, and the right side of her face was bloodied, her cheekbones exposed. She had gone from ready to defend him to barely conscious in mere seconds. The creature's talons began shine with a purple glow.

There were tears in her good eye. "…Ricard…" She struggled, and clasped his surcoat with her left hand. "I…I-I" She couldn't make the words as her lip quivered. Ricard hoisted her up, and ran a hand down the good side of her face. He shushed her as he ripped his helm off his face. "No more words." He bent down and met her lips with his, preventing her from any more sounds as he unsheathed his knife. He moved it to her neck, and was about to pull it across her throat, a mercy blow as he tried to comfort her in those last seconds.

At the last, Ricard pulled his hand away, and sling her over his shoulder, eyeing the creature even as it gave a gaze that could freeze fire. In an instant he had cut down two goblins with his rapier, and made a beeline for the door. The first bolt hit him in the shoulder, the second behind his knee.

The third punctured under his armpit as he fell.

He didn't even feel the claws through his back. Only the cold.

"Adala" He whispered. Then he hit the floor.

* * *

Ricard laid her down by a large headstone. She would have looked so peaceful of there wasn't such destruction along her right hand side. He wasn't able to recover her treasured claymore, but hoped that a placeholder sword would do for now. It would be an insult for her to be lain without any sort of weapon. The zweihander was large and brutish, not a weapon that would have complimented her style. But, it was a sword nonetheless, and would do for now.

Ricard looked up the cliff path and where his goal lay. To find out that all his life he was being led by the nose to a sacrificial death had been a soul crushing moment, but in the end his only thought had been for the companion who had followed him to the end. She had died for his dream, his quest, and had died in agony in a cold and foreign place. Ricard wasn't about to let that slide, and he would never be able to repay her devotion. Ricard had no idea if he had given her what she wanted right at the end, if she had loved him, admired him or was simply the closest of friends. Whatever the case, it seemed the right thing to do, a simple and harmless way to acknowledge everything she had done, and take her mind off her brutal death if that was even possible.

The Dark Beast's servant had, ultimately, been unable to kill what is already dead. Whatever it thought, Ricard was not about to hollow any time soon, and with each painful and gory failure, he came closer to victory. Finally, he had plunged his rapier into the beast's eye after poking it full of holes. Why the Dark Beast had chosen to mark him was still a mystery, but he guessed that it had sensed his adventurer's spirit even as a child, and would be the most likely to pursue a life of travelling and walk straight into the isolated and unguarded places of the world.

Ricard felt as if he had reached some form of enlightenment, safe in the knowledge that there wasn't a set path before him he was walking down unknowingly. Ricard looked up to the cliff side that was the beginning of his journey. Of everyone they he had met in his land, they were searching for a way to halt the undead curse. But he was going to bring her back. Ricard would be looking for a way to cause it.

* * *

Ricard took another look at the scorched earth and then back at the great red beast a hundred yards from him. Killing the damned thing seemed largely unlikely, so Ricard was planning his route. Take a right and go down the stairs. He would check where they led first, and if they took him further away then he would make a break for the entrance underneath the great wyvern.

Although…maybe he could help someone who would come after him. He might even…

Ricard pulled out a soapstone, bright orange like a fading sunset. Hmm, he remembered there was something significant about the sunset. Something to do with Adala, and…he couldn't quite recall. Nevertheless, he reached towards the floor.

**Imminent Drake…**

* * *

Ricard was at the end of a thin alleyway, blank brick wall on his left and a small wall followed by a very large drop on his right. Moss had worked its way in between the bricks, the mortar old and crumbling and struggling to resist the vegetation's attack. He reached for his flask of estus and took a long swig, instantly feeling his vigour returning as his mind became more alert and old wounds began to close. He took a moment to sample to the breath-taking views before him. He could see almost all of Lordran from up here. This was the base of the great mountain that houses the glorious City of the Gods, and if the 'common' parts of Lordran looked like this, then Anor Londo must be the most amazing sight for anyone to lay their eyes upon.

Ricard ran his finger along the length of his rapier, making sure that the edge and point was still sharp. There was a hulking mass of metal before him, a hollowed being encased inside of it. The knight of Berenike had its back to him, as if he too was staring at the landscape. It reminded Ricard of an old marching tune he had heard when around the knights of Berenike.

_You better hope your head is down, when the Berenike knights are in town._

_Black steel boys we are here, swords are high up in the air_

_Black steel boys we are here, you better hold your hands in prayer_

_Black steel boys we are here, SHAG YOUR WOMEN, DRINK YOUR BEER_

_Sword! Shield! Mace! CHARGE!_

It became a game among them, with a different soldier shouting out the first line every round. Ricard generally found that they were a bawdy lot, always shouting and swearing. But they were hard men, and the best warriors anyone could ask for. They were tempered in combat, and relied on each other to cover the horrors they've seen with camaraderie and acting as a unit. To see a Berenike knight on his own was a sad sight for Ricard.

Not that this would stop the knight attacking, nor would it stop Ricard from defending himself. Although, he knew this would be a difficult fight. Berenikian armour is incredibly thick and would be better overcome with a blunt weapon. That, or poke the gaps at the joint, which were at least covered with chain mail and usually well protected. The knights even developed a fighting style that was used to protect these weak points and make them walking fortresses.

Ricard decided caution was the best policy, and fired an arrow at the back of the knight's kneecap. It turned unfazed, shield raised and charged towards him. Fortunately, it seemed that the knight had lost his skill along with his mind and employed lumbering smashed that Ricard avoided easily. He back stepped and let loose another arrow that hit his enemy in the confines of his unprotected face. It was stunned for a moment, but soon came back with another forceful blow.

Ricard flicked his wrist and deflected the mace from the side, putting the knight off balance. With a leap, he put a quick thrust into its elbow and landed on its extended arm, weighing it down to the ground. He then graciously thrust out his sword arm and buried it deep under the knight's armpit. He pushed so forcefully that the strap that held the shoulder guard to his body, although worn, snapped allowing the rapier to protrude through the knight's whole arm. Ricard held it there for nearly a minute before the knight bled out and slumped dead at his feet.

He walked past the newly made corpse and tried to reach the end of this elaborate castle. He was almost at the summit when he stopped to view the mountain side. A giant iron golem stood motionless guarding his passage and protecting the mountain path. Ricard took a few seconds to run his eyes over the golem, making notes on every detail that might give him an edge. He knew he had to keep on going, but his exact motive was still a mystery. He was sure he once knew. But for some reason, anything before today was a blurred mess that seemed to invoke pain without him really knowing why. Funny how he could remember a marching song and not how he even arrived in this place. It made him frustrated more than anything.

He was still in thought when his legs fell from under him. He was forced into near splits, going down on one knee while the other leg was forced straight out almost at a right angle to his hip. His head was smashed forward into the base of the wall. He looked up and saw the very human face of a Balder knight, mouth forced into a steely grin of determination while his eyes were vacant and dead. The knight pressed his left forearm against the back of his vambrace, holding him down. He then leaned his sword against the forearm, maintaining its balance for what Ricard thought would be a quick accurate strike.

Ricard pulled an arrow from his quiver a drove it into his opponent's knee, the old armour crumbling away and letting the point pierce soft sinew. The man of Balder howled in pain and stamped down as a reaction spasm to the bodkin head now lodged in his leg. It caught the back of Ricard's elbow as he tried to stand, and forced it back the other way into an unnatural position. The joint snapped with a sickening crunch and Ricard's arm went limp. The pain was so great it nearly rendered Ricard unconscious. He slumped forward again, helmet just touching the edge of the wall.

The Balder knight recovered, and repeated his manoeuvre. Ricard forced himself to turn but the point had already cut the back of his neck. He felt the blade push on his spine, and then nothing at all as his nerves were severed by a foreign object. The Balder knight had to push hard, twice, to force the sword deeper into the Undead Prince. Ricard lost his vision and jerked violently as the sword was yanked out with great effort. Blood spurted up and followed it for a moment before it poured freely from his wound, like wine from a dropped flagon. His surcoat was drenched and discoloured and his armour became sticky and slick. He coughed and spattered the inside of his helmet in blood that stuck to the visor and then slowly dripped down on the wall, painting the bright green moss red.

The Balder knight kicked Ricard in the back and sent him teetering on the edge of the wall. He swung back and then forth once, and then tumbled into the vast forest below without a sound. The Balder knight greedily grabbed the humanity he had left behind, cradled it for a second and then walked away.

When Ricard returned, he had finally lost all sense of purpose. He wandered back to where he had fallen as if some instinct guided him there for his mind was empty and without reason. He stood atop the stairs once again and gazed out at the scenery, staring at that mountain wall as if something might return to him, yet it never did.

* * *

**Adala: Absolutely no mention of her in Dark Souls and a complete fabrication of mine.**

**Ricard was always described as going on an adventure and being lost up north, but this was never detailed. Therefore, I've taken some great liberties with the lore, and basically just made it all up. I still hope it's an enjoyable tale though. **

**Further more, I've finally plucked up enough courage to take on a truly great character, the mascot for Dark Souls. Yes random guest reviewer, I've actually worked out how the story will go and I'm doing: Solaire!**

**I was worried that I wouldn't be able to do him justice and was torn on his origins, but I finally have a solid idea and hope that it meets expectations. **

**As always, tell me what you like, what you don't and leave me ideas you think are just too good to go unpublished. Thanks everyone. **


	13. The Shining Knight

_Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you-Charlotte Whitton_

"Who are you?" The little boy asked, his voice high and inquisitive. It was a genuine question of confusion as he clearly didn't fully understand the situation, he wasn't worried or afraid or sympathetic. He was holding a toy sword of wood and string and let it hang down as his arm and wrist was relaxed and loosely swinging back and forth. His other hand did hold a fresh loaf of bread, but he had now dropped it, mud soaking into the perfectly good bun. He was merely curious with wide eyes that drunk in every detail. If anyone else had been standing there, they would not have displayed anything near the lad's fearlessness.

A huge figure lay before him, at least eight feet tall with the muscle mass to compliment it. His whole body was shielded in plates of shimmering steel that was expertly layered over each other. Some areas were incredibly worn and blackened while others shone as if they were freshly forged. He looked like some ferocious grey beast with the armour fitting him almost like a second skin. A tattered cape was splayed underneath him, pockmarked with holes and frayed edges. It was pure black apart from a gold trim and a faded white insignia that was almost completely worn. His helmet pointed out like some great snarling beast with short and worn down horns that looped down so they pointed where he was facing and a visor that glowed magma red, angled forward in an intimidating and furious expression. If the visor had been layered with teeth, he might have looked like a demon even up close. Truly it was a face to flee from.

He lay spread eagle on a heap of rubble, the joints of his armour oozing a viscous, red liquid. His great chest heaved up and down as he struggled for breath. His sword, if you could even call it that, lay beside him just out of reach. It was surely as tall as he was, eight feet long and nearly half a foot wide. Its edges were thin and sharp, so the sword at least retained its dimensions as to be called a sword and multiple marks and stains were splattered upon it, but no notches or dents. The hilt was ornate with a gleaming red jewel in its centre, the pommel a golden sun with spiky protrusion of sunlight. The whole blade seem to glow and wreathed in golden electrocutions that flowed up and down the edge.

His greatshield was strapped to his arm, a hulking behemoth of pure metal. It looked nigh on impossible to lift, following a general triangular shape with a curved point and several protrusions along its edges that made for a formidable adversary on its own. The insignia was a burning sun with a sword in its foreground that looked doomed to be swallowed by the sun's incandescence. His belt was riddled with all manner of arms: a plain looking longsword that seemed to radiate heat, a flail with a large and flanged head and a seemingly unremarkable dagger. To his back there was a long bladed spear and a double sided axe with a yellow jewel upon its top.

He was in an isolated part of the town, an area that had been largely forsaken by its people. The buildings were crumbling and the wall was in dire need of repair. Everything was overgrown as moss stuck in nooks and crannies where the damp went unchecked. But the boy liked to wander through these paths on his way home, see the beautiful flowers and smell things other than sewers and disease. And it seemed the sun shone brightest here, the warmth embracing him as he skipped through broken brick and glass.

Upon realising he wasn't alone, the figure turned his head towards the boy. "The fuck's it matter?" He spat in a deep gravelly voice that while authoritive sounding also gave an indication of pain and resignation. "Thou'd best leave. There are foes all around and I would rather avoid seeing a child dismembered." The boy however, made no effort to turn away.

The boy only grinned a raised his wooden sword. "Then I'll fight them off! I'm not scared!" He then gave little roar to indicate he was ready for battle. The mysterious man only laughed until it hurt and he began to cough. "Thou really hast no trace of fear. An advantage or a flaw, that would depend on the answerer. Thine courage will serve thee well I hope." He tried to flex his fingers and then make a reach for his greatsword, but the effort proved too great.

"Who are you?" The boy asked again. He sounded slightly more forceful this time, being rather peeved that his question was answered first time. His eyes blue eyes became serious and focussed hard into the man's visor even though a bestial glow stared back at him.

The man took a deep sigh. "I am Gwyndarrion, formerly the Sun's Strong Arm and Leader of the Warriors of Sunlight." The boy's face lit up once more.

"I like the sun." He said plainly and smiled again. "It's warm and drives the dark away. I like the light. Here." He produced another toy from his pocket, a woollen knight, likely knitted by his mother. "His name's Solaire. He's a knight of the sun. One day I'll be a knight just like him and fight for good. Didn't say you lead the Sunlight Warriors? Maybe he could be one of your knights?" Gwyndarrion looked at this remarkable little boy more closely. He was a little skinny, and while his clothes were old they looked decent enough. A son of a minor lord or some member of the gentry. Everyone struggled in war, and even the rich struggle to feed themselves in a siege. The frontier town was constantly under attack and surely this youth was accustomed to conflict. Yet, last Gwyndarrion checked he was still being pursued and was currently in no state to protect the boy if danger came.

"Solaire seems a good knight. Strong, noble, chivalrous. I'm sure he would make an excellent Sunlight Warrior." Gwyndarrion coughed again, more violently this time.

"Formerly." The boy said.

"Pardon?"

"You said formerly." The boy took his time mulling over the word and pronounced every syllable. "Formerly…like…used to." He had a furrowed brow as he tried to work out what this meant. "So, you aren't anymore?" Gwyndarrion gave a short chuckle. The boy certainly was perceptive.

"Yes, young one. I was cast out of my home for a foolish act, erased from history. I don't know if thou hast noticed, but I am dying. I was so used to an immortal body. I never have, and never will be beaten by strength of arms. But I hath gotten old, and being old makes you slow and allows cancers to spread." He gave a sigh of exertion and with shaking hands reached for his sword. He lifted it high in the air before driving the point into the dirt and using it to stand. He was shuddering the whole way and small spats of blood fell from several joints in his armour.

He ripped his helmet off and spat blood, letting the fearsome token clatter to the floor. Finally, the boy got a good look at his face. A slightly wrinkled face with a sizeable grey beard and grey hair that was slightly spike up in the centre and short at the sides. He also harboured a black eye and a scar that ran parallel to the left side of his face. Shadows on the wall began to move heralding the arrival of some unwanted visitors. Gwyndarrion turned to the little boy. "Thou hast failed to heed my advice." He growled. "Prepare to defend yourself boy." He shrugged the greatshield off his arm letting it clatter to the ground. He also cut his belt so that he stood slightly less hunched and had nothing but his armour and his greatsword.

Several soldiers emerged before them, looking downtrodden and fatigued. Most were arrow fodder peasants, wielding pikes and a mixture of woodsman's axes and wooden clubs, but a few were men at arms with polished halfhelms and chain mail that emblazoned their lord's arms, a trident wrapped in chains. There was even two knights clad in full plate and mounted on destriers as heavily armoured as they were. Gwyndarrion did his best to stand up straight, propping himself up with his sword. "The odds are unfair sir." He called. "You are at least a couple hundred short." The voice although pained, still boomed out, and a few of the soldiers backed off a few steps, only to be shoved back into place by their officers. One of the mounted knights snorted.

"You will not be so snarky when your head sits atop a spike and your guts litter the pavement." He motioned his troops forward and unsheathed his own sword.

"If I am to fall, it will be in battle, with sword in hand." Gwyndarrion muttered as he attempted to lift his sword, barely getting it off the ground with two hands. He had to lean back and lever his weight towards the back of the weapon. The officer shoved the hapless conscripts toward their fearsome looking enemy. "One hundred golden lloyds to the man who brings me his head. If more than half of you die, that gets downgraded to silver rendals." The soldier's eyes lit up at that, realising that he was heavily wounded and may prove easier game. A hundred golden coins could feed a family for at least a year. The poor pikemen charged forward, using their reach advantage to avoid the danger zone. Unfortunately for them, Gwyndarrion slapped them aside and leapt forward. He made one great swing which cleaved through three of them, ripping their spines in two and completely tearing their torsos from their legs. This made one of the conscripts flee on sight only to be stabbed in the eye by one of the mounted knights.

Gwyndarrion was panting heavily and coughing between every other breath. Yet still he fought on, the enormous sword keeping his foes at bay and turning anyone foolish enough to come near into giblets. One of the men at arms darted past him and prepared to strike a spear into his exposed leg. Gwyndarrion flipped the sword over his shoulder, letting gravity do the work. The man saw the shadow fall over him, letting out a scream that was cut short as the sword slammed into him. It cleaved right through his helmet and body, slitting his ribcage through the middle. It made it all the way to his sternum, making two equally sized slabs of meat flop to the floor with a heavy, wet slap. Several of the guardsmen held back and fired off crossbows. They bounced harmlessly off his armour, yet one nicked his neck leaving a straight trail of red along the side of it. Gwyndarrion grunted and the whole assault went silent. "Always hated crossbows." He growled. "THEY TAKE AN AGE TO LOAD!" With that he leapt at the gathered troops hacking them to pieces and ripping the front legs off of one of the horses.

The passage was a bloody mess, red ooze and red chunks decorating the floor and walls. Only a handful of assailants remained, but two of whom were knights. Gwyndarrion brought down his sword again onto one of the knights who raised his shield. It smashed right through the thick wood and thin steel, slicing his hand off at the wrist. There was an awful snap followed by a wet pop as the Sun's Strong Arm felt a ligament in his shoulder snap. He shifted his sword to his left hand and took a backstep. His right arm hung loosely by his side in a contorted position that made him lean to one side.

The knight who wasn't coiling in pain let out a dirty laugh. The three mem at arms that were still alive followed suit. "Easy pickings now boys." He shouted to them.

"Like the god of war wouldn't be able to wield a sword in either hand." Gwyndarrion hissed although his voice was laced with pain. Four men inched towards him in a loose formation so to avoid being scythed down by the massive blade. They all leapt at him at once, sword in hand. He made a parrying blow that swept across his body and took another leapt backwards, struggling to move the sword in any lethal manoeuvre. They tried to press home their advantage but Gwyndarrion was too quick and was able to deftly avoid every block, dancing his way round the soldiers and ducking under their slashes. He was finally able to isolate one of them and swung the sword round his shoulder, using the momentum of his spin to get a decent amount of velocity. It crashed into a man at arms under his helmet, cutting a straight slice into his neck and sending him flying.

Banking on the fact that the others were pursuing him, he flicked the sword round and brought it down on the knight, utterly disintegrating him and cutting off the arm of another guardsman who crumpled to the floor. With only one left, he sundered his opposition's sword and drove the point straight into his sternum. The soldier fell backwards, Gwyndarrion unable to pull his sword back out and fell with him. He relinquished his grip on the handle and let the sword stand within the newly made corpse. He was barely able to keep to his feet let alone hold his weapon. Old wounds had ripped open and he was freely leaking blood everywhere. If he was not attended to soon, he would bleed out.

"Right." A throaty voice called. "The game's fucking up. Just sit there and fucking bleed or get up if you prefer, but I go free." Gwyndarrion looked up to see the one handed knight with a knife at the little boy's throat. His stumpy wrist still gurgled a little blood which ran down the boy's top. Gwyndarrion didn't think he had enough strength to take on the knight but he wasn't about to leave the boy at his mercy. He moved a hand to his throwing knives. However, the knight had seen this and tightened his grip. "How long do you think it will take you to chuck one of those things?" He rasped. "One move, and his throat's an open flap."

What neither of them had realised was that the boy had been fiddling with Gwyndarrion's dropped equipment, and had been holding the dagger when the knight had grabbed him. He unsheathed it now and drove the point into the broken stump of the unsuspecting knight. It went right down the middle of his bone scooping out marrow and shredding already wrecked flesh. He squealed in pain as his arms flew out in reaction to his nerves firing up. The knife dragged under the boy's chin, making a wide yet shallow cut. As the knight hit the floor, the boy totted over to the plain looking longsword. It felt warm in his hands and holding it calmed him immediately. He took the point and leaned on the knight's windpipe. He simply pushed forward. Gwyndarrion noted that he had made a bit of a butchery of it, but the fact that the lad seemed to have the basic rudiments of a coup de grace worried and intrigued him.

The lad threw down the bloody sword when he was finished and began to weep a little. He made short gasps but tried to hide the fact he was crying. Gwyndarrion dragged himself over to him, and rested a hand on his shoulder. He wasn't really sure what to do, he felt like congratulating the child, but that might be out of order. He thought for a good minute and finally decided on a course of action. Could he really do this to the youngster? His life would be altered for ever, was the preservation of the sun worth it?

He turned the boy to face him. "I never asked you your name lad." He wheezed through gritted teeth. The boy gave him an odd look.

"My name?" He replied with a tone that suggested he might as well have asked if his hands were made of potatoes. _What an odd boy he is. _Gwyndarrion didn't feel like he had time to press him on the matter. He made a quick decision in his mind and spat a glob of blood. He leaned into the boy, right up to his face.

"You said you like the sun, didn't you?" The boy only nodded through watery eyes. He stretched out his hand and in it was a fire, burning on nothing. It flickered but remained strong, glowing with golden effervescence. It didn't look like his hand was on fire, it looked instead like he was holding the fire.

"A fragment of the soul of flame now passes to you. It will burn and consume you, a heavy price to pay. Is it thine wish to accept this? Thou art the sun's last hope." The boy stared at hard, uncompromising eyes that betrayed no emotion. He held Gwyndarrion's gaze for a good while. Finally, he enveloped the flame with his hands, cupping it tightly. "I will take it." He uttered. Gwyndarrion smiled and reached for the longsword, running it against his cape to remove the blood. He pressed the sword into the child's hands, and pushed the flame towards him. It danced for a while before it passed into the boy, and for a second he shimmered. His eyes betrayed the golden glow of fire as he seemed to radiate. "Go now, son of the sun. Shine light upon the world." The boy closed his eyes for a second. Everything felt so hot, like he his inside were ablaze, and even when he shut his eyes for darkness, a light appeared that blinded him. When it was gone and the child opened his eyes again, the valiant warrior was gone, and where he had stood, naught but ashes.

He looked at the toy knight he had dropped and picked it up tenderly, as if he were afraid to break it. He stared at the little sword and the pokey helmet. He stared long and hard, and then stared at the ashes, and then back at the knight. He creased his brow as if he was trying very hard to remember something. He rubbed his thumb over the little symbol of the sun emblazoned on the knight's chest. He seemed to recall what he was searching for, and leaned in close to the knight and whispered. "Solaire..."

* * *

"Praise the Sun!" He cried. His arms extended at a forty five degree angle above his shoulders and he stood on his tiptoes, making a 'Y' shape with his whole body. Having just come from the gloom and shelter of a building, the sun was a welcome sight. It poured its rays all over Solaire, making his armour shimmer in the light and send bright spots flying off the walls behind him. His greathelm became a radiant halo that encapsulated his whole head. His fellow undead turned towards him, giving an incredulous frown. She then shook her head and continued walking forwards. Solaire finished his little tribute and then followed her along a narrow bridge of greying stone. Moss had wormed its way into the cracks, inhabiting every space it could find. The fact that it still stood was a testament to the Lords construction skills.

The other undead seemed keen to move on. She had not bothered offering him a name, even though he had told her his, and everything about suggested uncanny awareness and suspicion. She was already fighting another group of hollows. Conscripts they seemed, wielding equipment other nations would beg for but was trivially bog standard for Lordran. It was now crumpled and ruined, but not completely useless, offering enough protection from a lazy swing perhaps. Solaire prepped a lightning spear while his companion slashed wildly with a scimitar, missing the pitifully few plates of armour. Solaire released his bolt of lightning and hit a crossbowman on an upper rampart, sending him limp immediately before he could loose a quarrel.

The woman, however, didn't notice his bolt or the presence of the dead hollow. "Are you just going to stand there while I do all the work or are you going to help?" She shouted at him, raising an eyebrow, daring him to answer. "I wish only to engage in jol-"

"Yes, yes, jolly cooperation." She said, rolling her eyes. She hurried forward along a small, knee-high walled square and up some stairs. She noticed a bonfire on the left inside the lower portion of a tower. Solaire gazed at the flames as she refilled her estus with liquid fire. "Shall we linger a while in the brightness of the fire?" Solaire suggested rather jovially.

"No. We'll press on, I don't want to stay here for any longer than needed, even by a bonfire. I don't trust anything here, particularly you." She didn't even look at him when she spoke and walked out through the archway. "My lady, you misread me." Solaire protested. "I only wish to help those through their perilous travels. Anything is possible if you trust in the glory of the sun." She gave him another look that suggested she'd almost rather take this perilous journey alone.

She pressed on ahead of Solaire, not leaving him much to do. She seemed perfectly capable of doing this alone, but she hadn't really asked for Solaire's help, he was kind of just tagging along. He didn't understand why she was so sceptical towards him, he was only presenting genuine and good intentions after all.

His travelling companion span away brandishing her scimitar and flicking it this way and that. She moved it very gracefully, the light weapon suited her slight build that relied on speed over power. She did seem rather competent, and Solaire had to respect her skill. She eagerly kept moving, intent on reaching some destination. Did she even know what that destination was? "If you worry too much about the destination, you won't appreciate the journey." He piped up, trying to be helpful. She gave him another glare.

"The journey's utter shite. Everything's dead, and those that are inconsiderate enough to come back want us to join them. So I'm not gonna dwell on it. Stick that in your book of proverbs." She peered round the corner that led up another flight of stairs, scimitar angled forward in a low guard. From this Solaire gathered she wasn't just a natural sword fighter, she knew the more technical points as well. She had been trained. Three hollows were waiting at the top of the stairs, and one leapt at her with a battle axe held high above his head. She nimbly slid underneath him and leapt to her feet, weighing up which enemies to go for. There was a cracking sound in the air as lightning hit the axe wielding hollow in the chest. Solaire bounded up the stairs, parrying with his shield to send a firebomb flying over the ledge beside them.

He continued sprinting as his sword caught the light and flashed before him. He tore through rusted mail and old cloth, splitting one of the hollows ribs at the breastbone. A quick horizontal swipe sliced past paper skin and old brittle bones, taking the head of the other hollows clean off before he could react. There was barely any blood as the decapitated body hovered there for a second, swinging back and forth on shaky legs before toppling forward on its chest. The head landed on top of it, bouncing off and rolling away. Solaire looked towards his compatriot to see she actually looked grateful for once.

They breezed past the next set of opponents. Although they were numerous, and they were in a carefully set formation, their combined skill at arms was too great. Solaire even managed to electrocute the archer atop the tower after he noticed a bolt whizz past him. These hollows seemed more like the professional soldiers he would have associated with Lordran, proper fitting halfhelms, swords that actually held an edge and shields with that seemed wholly intact. It was not long before they all lay dead at their feet. Solaire gestured to the stairs. "It would seem that this is the way forward." His voice muffled by his helmet. However, the other undead was looking at another path, one that led downwards. She took a peek and spotted an imposing black figure in an archway. She then shook her head. "Not while we leave him standing. What if he were to come and stab us in the back while we fight up the tower. Better to deal with him now while it's a two on one."

Solaire was about to object but she had already crept forward to the figures position. She made sure to keep her footing light as she inched towards it. Finally she sprang forward to deliver a slice under her opponent's helmet. It turned, while she was mid blow, raising a shield and letting the scimitar bounce harmlessly of it. It stood there, at least eight feet of scorched black armour. There were stunted horns on its helmet. Its visor showed nothing, betraying no sign of life or thought. It seemed cold and dead inside, and the very sight of it made Solaire long for the heat of the sun. It raised a large sword, larger than a claymore, in a single hand and brought it down heavily towards his attacker. She leapt backwards as the edge missed her by a hair's width. Solaire let loose another arc of lightning that crashed into its chest. It didn't even seem to notice it.

The black knight leapt to life and ran forward at an alarming pace, unleashing a barrage of deadly strokes that his companion was struggling to avoid. She ducked under one of the strikes and ended up on its right. She hooked the sharpened point of the scimitar into its visor and jerked her hand inwards, making shreds of its face. Yet, the black knight didn't even flinch, grabbing the thin steel and breaking it against the edge of its own visor. A piece of shattered metal hung out of the helmet and still it did not falter. The knight switched the grip on its sword, far too deftly than should be capable with such a blade, so that it pointed backwards in its hand. A swift upwards slash cut through the space where the undead would have been, the point just grazing her cheek but cutting through it like butter all the same.

Solaire had fired another bolt that the knight didn't seem to feel and ran to her aid. The knight was relentless and kept pursuing the unarmed undead. A shield bash caught her under the chin after many missed swipes, sending blood spraying upwards from her nose. A follow up hit took her at the knee, almost ripping her lower leg off just below the joint. It splintered immediately, the butchered bone hanging freely out of a gap as she screamed and fell helplessly to the ground. She still didn't accept her doom, and made efforts to move despite her grievous wound and excruciating pain. Tears ran down her face, with a messy splash of crimson where her nose should be, as she shuffled away. The knight loomed ominously over her, the dark figure of death poised to strike her down. He brought his sword point first, the stab passing just above her breastbone and coming cleanly out of her back as she tried to lean forward. A breath got caught in her throat as a shock of blonde fell across her eyes along with a gurgling from her mouth. The knight lifted her up, skewered, and threw back onto the ground in an ungracious heap.

Solaire's sword drove itself along the gap in behind its high gorget, driving the point firmly as it scraped the black armour deeper into this bodiless creature. The black knight threw its arms into the air as it let out a deep and pained cry that that sounded like an enraged beast. It then fell forward and melted in a shower of light, the dark shadow of fear gone as if it had never existed. His cooperation partner was also gone, only her blood betraying was had transpired here. Solaire looked at it sadly and said a prayer, hoping that she would find some of Lord Gwyn's guidance wherever she was, before embarking back up the stairs so he could continue on his own journey, even if it must be done alone. He gazed at the sun for a moment, sitting on the stairs taking no heed of the carnage around him while he admired the shining glory in the sky. He would wait here a while an recover his strength before he decided to set forth once again.

Solaire only needed to wait a minute before a bedraggled looking undead stumbled towards him. His robes were tattered and frayed, his soft little cap was almost in shreds and struggled to remain on his head. His left hand had a carved wooden catalyst in it, with a shoddy looking shortsword to compliment it. There were small cuts on his face and his hands were almost black with grime. He seemed quite young with a thin moustache that seemed like either a poor attempt to look older or a lack of proper grooming tools available. He fired a soul spear behind him nervously at some unseen opponent before almost running right into Solaire. He hopped back suddenly and stared wide eyed at Solaire, weighing up whether he should release a soul spear or not.

Solaire smiled warmly, although the other undead couldn't see. "Greeting fellow wanderer. What say you to the offer of company to partake in jolly cooperation?"

* * *

The journey had been hard and weary, he could feel the fatigue in his joints and in his mind. He slumped as he walked, a signal of his tiredness and dejection. How had it come to pass, that Solaire, the knight of indomitable faith was beginning to doubt his convictions? It hurt him to say it, but he could find no hope in the light anymore. He had gone to the very city of the gods, and yet still he hadn't found his sun. Had Lord Gwyn abandoned him? Why would he leave his children of the sun to their fate, blind in this land of sorrow? So many were willing to only live for themselves, weak willed and soft minded, and he would rob them of their faith and guidance?

He had decided to pledge himself, to serve the true light. He was an adherent, no, a crusader for good. He had his beliefs but was fully prepared to support them by strength of arms, prepared to give everything to defend his faith, to find his sun. He tried to remember when he had decided to follow Lord Gwyn's way. He was shocked to find he seemed to have no recollection of it. He looked at the dull stone corridors of the Witch's domain. Had this place robbed of him of his memories as well as his devotion? The anger, it sparked something in him, kindling an emotion that fuelled him with purpose. At the last, he found the desire he had had. That indescribable yearning to find his sun, and a sense of guilt that he must do something, a most righteous thing, to set right old wrongs. These wrongs felt personal, but Solaire knew he had done nothing himself to skew the darkness in this life. It was correct the world, to breed a new age, surely. All he knew he had to find his sun. It was his _destiny. _

This test would not destroy him. An obstacle for his faith and his strength that he would find a way to overcome. "Trust in the light" He whispered. He knew he must press on. For Solaire was the light in this darkened world.

* * *

It was finally the end. Here it was, the close to his quest. The sun, in all its gross incandescence shone before him. The conclusion to his searching was before him, he only needed to reach out and take it. His mission had nearly destroyed him, but at last, Solaire could stand astride the light. He moved closer to it, completely focussed on the bright shining. Nothing else mattered, or ever will matter for he finally had his sun. Solaire extended a hand towards it. He first let the fired dance amongst his fingers and then tightened his grip so that he was squeezing the actual sun itself. He held the brilliance, and brought it close to his heart. He held the heat there. The flames licked at his arms and legs, and were soon clambering on him. He now shined as bright as the sun, he held the light within him. "My sun." He whispered. "I've found my sun."

* * *

**Finally, I'm actually back to writing things. I hope it was worth the wait. I tried to leave the ending purposefully ambiguous so it could apply to either of Solaire's endings, I prefer not to write things assuming the Chosen Undead did a certain thing, I feel like the story then relies too much on player actions that might not have happened. **

**I plan to do Trusty Patches next, a character that I'm sure many people would love to hear about. I better start working on it before it takes months again or whatever. **


	14. The Trusty Hyena

_Bitterness is like cancer. It east upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean-Maya Angelou_

He sat on the wall, legs swinging beneath him. He was dressed in shabby looking coat, covered in pockets and extra pits of fabric. Its arms and shoulders had multiple squares of different coloured and patterned fabric, some with complicated designs and others were just flat colours. There were maybe forty of them, of varying size. His trousers were grey, brown where mud hadn't been washed off, with a green and blue striped square on his right knee and a gold and white crowned skull on his left. He always worn patches. When they found him, a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and in a small basket, he had a blanket covered in patches of different designs. From that day on, the priestesses who took him in called him 'Patches', and from that day that had been his name.

Patches lifted his head, medium length blonde swept to one side so it covered one of his eyes. He had a young boyish face that made him look younger than he really was. Although, he had no puppy fat, he was actually rather skinny. He was strong for his weight, able to do pull ups and handstands with ease, but would easily lose arm wrestling matches to the older kids. He held a single gold coin in his hand, a coat of arms on one side and Allfather Lloyd on the other. He turned it over and over, doing tricks with his fingers and flicking it in the air. He kept at it until a dark shadow passed over him, the shining reflection of the sun's rays on the coin immediately stopping.

Patches looked up and saw two of the bigger children glaring down at him. "Is that a gold coin?" The one in front of him asked. His friend made a toothy grin that contorted into a cruel smile. "Gimme." He demanded. Patches began to edge his hand closer to their greedy paws but snatched it back at the last moment. "Why would I give you this one?" He began, "When you could have more?" Their eyes widened at the thought of at least a gold coin each was almost too much for them. Most of the children Patches knew hadn't even seen a gold coin, let alone dreamt of possessing one. The bigger child looked back at him. "I'm not stupid. Why don't you go get the treasure if you know where it is?" He said, sceptical of Patches' claim. It was now Patches' turn to smiles.

"Why my friends, I am not of the same courage." He explained. "I'm afraid. They're in a dark place, and I'm scared of it. But you boys, well, I bet you're brave." The two boys broke out into big smiles.

"We're not scared, are we Grennel?" He boasted.

"Nope, never scared." Grennel assured. Patches stood up from the wall and held the coin out in front of him. "I'll give you my coin as well. My coin for the toy sword you have." The boys looked suspicious again. "My sword ain't worth no gold coin." He stated.

"Not just the sword, you also promise not to beat me up." Patches replied.

"Why don't we just beat you anyway and take the coin?"

"Because then I won't tell you where the other ones are." Patches held out his hand. "Do we have a deal?" The boys shook it and presented a toy sword while Patches flicked the coin towards them. "Follow me!" He piped and set off out of the church grounds and down a narrow dirt track. After a few minutes he reached a mossy well that looked like it hadn't been in use for some time. The blys peeked at the bottom. "Dry." They said, flatly.

"Yes." Patches assured. "Not a drop. But I saw golden glints when I was walking yesterday. You can climb down the side, see there are handholds." And sure enough there were bricks that weren't flush to the surface and several vines of ivy. "I picked that one up from the side. But I don't want to climb down. Never was a good climber."

"We're good climbers." Grennel boasted again, pointing a thumb at his chest. They took a moment to survey the well, standing on the lip and tentatively peering in, despite their claims. So focussed were they that they didn't notice a skinny boy pilfering a shiny coin from a back pocket. "I think you've been standing there long enough." Patches announced. "In you go." Before they could turn around he had kicked the largest boy in the back and he went tumbling down into the well. "Rylden!" Grennel screamed as he saw his friend hitting the bottom with a thud. Patches then smacked a bucket on his head and kicked him in the crotch to send Grennel falling backwards. He was able to grab the bucket as the rope it was attached to yanked taught and threatened to snap. In the end, it held with a shouting boy holding on the end of it.

"Oh quit yer whining." Patches snapped impatiently. "He's not dead, he only fell about ten feet. Hold there long enough and someone might come along and see you. But then again, they might not." He glanced back at his precious gold coin. "And remember," He stared right into the boy's eyes, a harsh expression on his face. "Next time you threaten me I leave you hanging there naked. Or if I'm feeling cruel, it might be your corpse I hang from that rope." With that he walked away whistling, flicking his coin in the air, ignoring the pleas coming from down the well.

* * *

Patches was throwing stones at pigeons down in the square. It was nearly sundown, the dusk air fresh on his face, filling his lungs with cool breeze. The edges of the sky were beginning to turn red and he took a pause to admire the beautiful sight in the distance. He liked to come up here to avoid the insides of the church, where he expected to act as an acolyte. He couldn't stand the devout, always prattling on about some useless crap, telling him he was sinful and how much better everyone else was than him and how he was only here because of the goodness of their hearts. The moment was short lived when he heard footsteps coming from behind. "Patches!" One of the priestesses yelled. Patches turned around and saw it was Lorane, a middle aged woman with dark skin and darker eyes. Her white robe was flapping slightly in the wind and she edged closer towards him. She was uneasy with heights, and all her steps were sure and measured. "Shouldn't you be working?" She nagged, an angry expression on her face. Patches was used to angry faces. He seemed to get them all the time. "I'm sure there are some chores to be done."

"Done 'em." Patches said nonchalantly and went back to watching the sunset.

"Boy, come her now! You shouldn't be up on the roof. And don't socialise with the pigeons, you'll catch something from them."

"No I won't." Patches corrected. "Diseases rarely transfer between species. Or are you thick as well as ignorant?"

"You're asking for a beating boy." Her eyes grew even more furious. Patches stared for a while before he decided to move towards her. It was getting cold anyway. As soon as he got close she grabbed him by the ear and pulled him towards the door even as he voiced his discontent. "The other priestesses should have beat the insolence from you long ago." She scolded. Patches was sick of hearing her shrill voice and sick of lectures and spat on her robes. She squealed as the bubbly saliva hit her dress, soiling it. Patches squirmed from her grasp and bolted for the door, bounding down the stairs. If he kept his head down for long enough they would soon forget about him.

There was no such luck. Priestess Layna found him in the gardens. It would seem there had been several complaints from the other children and as the black sheep, Patches was blamed. "That's prejudice." Patches protested.

"So you're saying you didn't steal these things." Layna lifted an eyebrow as she said it.

"I didn't say that. It's the fact that you assumed it was me."

She sighed exasperated. "Because you are a known thief Patches." She almost laughed as she said it.

"I think I know I'm good enough to not be known." Patches quipped. Priestess Layna was definitely the friendliest towards him of them all towards him.

"You have a wicked heart and quick fingers youngster. They make for a poor combination." She paused for a second. "You know if I find these things, I'll have to sanction you."

"Yeah. But you won't find them." He felt bad for being short with Layna, but he was in a bad mood and no one in a white robe was going to get respect from him today. With that he set off back towards the church. He managed to go the rest of the night and most of the following day without incident. Until one of the older, harsher priestesses found him. "You!" She hissed, as if he had just killed her mother. "Come here!" Patches did as he was told for once. "Recognise this?" She pulled a shiny gold Lloyd from her pocket, polished to a keen shine. Patches eyes nearly burst from his skull as he reached for it and she snatched back. "That's mine!" He cried.

"You mean you stole it you little cutpurse." She had a firm scowl and he was sure she was intent on making him suffer.

"I didn't steal it, I found it." For once it was true. "It's mine, rightly so. It's all have, and it's mine."

"By the rights of criminals. You'll be beat bloody now boy. You'll have remembered every holy text before you'll be able to get back up again you'll be so bruised."

Patches had had enough. "You fucking clerics!" He shouted, nearly at the top of his lungs. "With that holier-than-thou attitude, always telling me to say my prayers and behave. You're just as bad as me. What about the crops you demand from poor farmers? The weak you kill in the name of the gods? The 'humble' priests who live better than nobles? If anyone has a black heart, it's the church. You're worse than me, at least I admit what I am!" The slap came so sudden and so fast that Patches didn't even react. It nearly spun him round it hit his cheek so hard. His face was stinging and he couldn't help but cup it with his hand when another strike, from a cane this time, lashed against his hip. "You are scum." She seethed and yelled, hitting him with every sentence. "You are a wretched little child who won't do as he is told and disgraces the gods. You should have been chucked down a well at birth. You are a demon in human form and should be whipped until the evil bleeds out of you!"

He leapt back and ran forward, tears of fury in his eyes, hitting the elderly priestess in the chest. She balanced precariously for a second before she fell on her back. Patches waited for a few seconds. She didn't move an inch in all that time. He turned and ran, through the corridors, up the stairs, running harder than he had ever run before, straight to the roof. He hung his legs over the edge of the roof, sobbing with his head leant against the bell tower. He might have even killed her. He made plans for running away, how he'd smuggle himself out in the night and make his own way in the world. He could pickpocket for a living, a large trading town would be an ideal place. But he knew it was wishful thinking. Where would he live? What if he got caught? Most likely he would simply take his beating and continue his miserable life and shun his coward's heart.

* * *

Trilden moved a small wooden figure the board, his face a mask of concentration. The board was quite ornate, with tiny three dimensional models of mountains, hills and rivers. Overall, the board was no bigger than a large book. The figures were wood, not ivory, and not so valuable but still well made. Trilden had sent his knights forward, through a narrow pass in the mountains that was in Patches' portion of the board, his kingdom. The rules were incredibly complex and inscribed briefly on the underside of the board, but key details were missing and they suspected that this must have been a well-known game among the nobility. Patches' crossbowman were ready to ambush him at the end of the pass. Trilden was prepared for this and was flanking him with swordsman and longbowman round the mountains. The few units that Patches had left were penned in the corner of the board. "Game over." Trilden said with a smile. Patches creased his brow, looking around the board. "What? How?" He looked up and Trilden had a massive smile plastered over his face. Patches nearly smacked the smile right off. "You were so preoccupied with the mountains, you forgot about your king." He laughed. Sure enough, his king, hiding behind a fortress, had been snuck upon by a unit of giants, moving right by his dragon. "I'm pretty sure you're cheating." Patches protested. "That's far too many squares for giants to move. We don't even know the rules."

"Well, you're not in a position to protest then are you." He snickered, and popped a smashed walnut in his mouth.

"Where'd you get this anyway?"

"Some rich man with too much money and too little care. It should fetch a good price." He said while packing the board away. "Bet he's a priest." He muttered. Patches couldn't help sniggering at that. It wouldn't be long before he was no longer considered a child, and he could be his own man. "I tell you," He began, "When I walk out those doors, I'm gonna take a huge shit right on thise pristine white steps and walk off without looking back. I tell you true bruv."

Trilden looked up and smiled before going back and focussing on backing up the board. Trilden was the only person Patches would consider a friend. The scruffy youth had turned up at the orphanage after his uncle hit a bit too hard, and had been living within the walls ever since. He hated it as much as Patches, but he had found someone else of the same ilk to socialise with and the two looked out for each other. He claimed the priestesses also beat nowhere near as hard as his uncle. There was a nasty looking scar just under his right nipple where the drunken lout had apparently taken a knife to him one night, and Patches never pressed the matter further. Trilden never talked about his parents, he only ever said they weren't around anymore.

"I think I smell dinner." Trilden sniffed. "Back to the B an' B?" Patches nodded and tightened the laces on his boots as he prepared to leave. He and Trilden had taken to calling the church the B and B, after Bed and Board. They said it was all it was good for, and all they'd ever use it for.

A fairly uneventful evening led to a restless night, and Patches was twisting and turning in his straw mattress well into the early hours. The priestesses rang the bell that signalled day break, and time for morning prayers. Patches usually skipped this and spent his mornings in the town before pinching breakfast leftovers after all the other children had gone off to play or morning lessons or whatever it was they did. He decided to trust this routine and find a tree which he could take a nap under, one in the woods, away from the road. Trilden wasn't in his bed when Patches got up, and he didn't see him all morning. It was mid-afternoon and Patches was sitting on the steps around a statue in the town square, eating a lemon pastry he pilfered when Trilden ran up to him, red faced and puffing.

"Got any for me Patches mate?" He panted as he came running over and then bent double to catch his breath. Patches nodded and tossed him a chunk he tore off.

"What ya running from?" He asked and ate the last bite from his pastry.

"Some bloke I rubbed up the wrong way." Trilden sat down beside him and propped one knee up to lean on. "I got to be careful who I sell to now." He put in. "Those guys I gave them candles to, remember?" Patches thought for a moment them nodded, his mouth full. "Well, found 'em this morning. Dangling from a rope. Hung as heretics." Patches swallowed his last bite.

"Shit, they didn't mention you, did they?"

"Nah." Trilden dismissed. "Why would they? All I did was sell 'em some stolen candles." He finished his bit of lemon tart and motioned for Patches to stand up. It looked to be a good day, with a minimal amount of white fluffy cloud, the sun mounted in an ocean of blue sky. "There some travellers on the canal." Trilden said. "Wanna check 'em out?"

"Sure bruv." Patches grinned and followed his friend down to the canals. They strode through winding alleys, past squat little houses with people pouring refuse out of the top windows. A small boy was throwing a stick for his dog that bounded by Patches, spinning him round. Trilden took him to the end of a passageway, and peered round the corner. They just needed to cross a wide street and the steps to the canal was a mere ten yards in front of them. The street was busy with traders and market stalls, so Trilden was careful to manoeuvre around people. He was just about to descend the track to the canal when a stern voice called out.

"Boy! Stop there!" Both Patches and Trilden turned around to see a man in armour pointing at them. He covered the ground between them quickly and was followed by two others in similar uniform. The bottom half of their faces were covered with cloth and helm, only their eyes and the top of their noses visible. Their brows were slanted, their eyed hard and unforgiving. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" Trilden called, calm as you like. Their breastplates were adorned with many chains and loose decoration, insignias of animals and holy symbols. Their shoulder guards were bright gold and heavy blue capes followed them. The one who spoke had a small plume coming from the top of his helmet. They stuck out like a sore thumb and Patches recognised their colours instantly. "Inquisitors." He hissed to his friend, trying to warn him of who they were.

"You're going to have to come with us." A deep, gruff voice said. Trilden didn't make any move to go.

"Why? I ain't done nothing." He regarded the men with a wary look. The crowd had parted around them so the three men were only a few feet from where the boys stood.

"A boy matching your description was seen associating with heretics. You are to be taken in for questioning."

"Taken in for torture you mean." Trilden spat. "How do you know it was me? There are plenty of boys round here." The men parted to reveal a thin bedraggled man, with a grey beard clambering around his face. He stepped forward and Patches heard an 'Oh shit' come from Trilden's mouth. The inquisitor looked at him. "That's 'im." The man said through splintered teeth. "I swear it by the Allfather 'imself."

The inquisitor turned back to him and came a step closer. "You are to come with us, and the Cleric Knights of Lloyd shall ensure your safety. Resist and we cannot make guarantees for your life." Trilden had a defeated look on his face and took a half step towards him. He then turned to Patches. "Run." He whispered, and reached into his pocket. He grabbed the mound of sand he always kept with him, for occasions such as these. He threw into the inquisitor's face who yelled and went to his knees, eyes burning. Patches bolted down to the canal, with Trilden close behind. One of the other cleric knights leapt forward, a longaxe in hand. He extended himself and swept upwards, the blade whistling through the air. It caught Trilden's leg, tripping him up and sending him face first into the dirt. He recovered quickly and was already on the way back up when Patches turned to check on his friend.

The longaxe scythed through the air, leaving a red trail behind it. Trilden was stuck on one knee, and Patches was waiting for him to bring up his other leg and start running. Only, he never did. He was frozen there, as Patches realised that his head was missing. "No!" He screamed, desperately, about to run back to him. The cleric kicked his corpse over and pointed at Patches, the other cleric running towards him while the first was still writhing in the dust. Patches bolted down the canal steps, grabbing a butcher's knife from the fish stall at the bottom. He ran along the canal side with the clerics in hot pursuit. Patches was much nippier and his pursuers were weighed down by their armour.

He darted into an alcove near a set of steps that led back to the town; a group of river gypsies nearby were arguing with canal officials. The two clerics stopped to check where he could have gone. In an instant, Patches charged into them, crashing into solid steel and sending one head first into the canal, sinking straight to the bottom, longaxe still in hand. The group near him were startled by the commotion and turned to see a boy slip under the strike of a heavily armed cleric knight and pull a knife across his throat.

The canal officials reached to grab him, but Patches had already leapt onto a nearby barge on the canal. He ran along its length and dove into the dark, icy water. He emerged on the other side, wet and freezing, but away from authority. The canal marked the very edge of the town, and he had just left its boundaries. Patches took one look back and held in a tear, turned and ran up the hill into the trees.

* * *

"Swear on my mum's life bruv." Patches grinned a toothy grin and held his hand out as if that guaranteed his cooperation. "I'll watch your back, no fear on that front." He pointed his spear back the way this new arrival had come from. He liked spears. Reach was his friend, the further away Patches could be from his enemies the better. Not bloody bows though. He had enough of stuff to keep track of without fumbling around with arrows and winches and reloading.

The man before Patches was raggedly dressed, an ill-fitting helm sitting on his shoulders and chainmail that sagged far past his waist, a small crossbow hooked onto his worn belt. The boots had holes in them and were nearly falling to pieces. His sword however, well that was a fine thing. Gleaming like it was bought only yesterday with inscriptions along the blade and a hilt of gold gilded steel. How he came across such a weapon, Patches couldn't begin to guess. All he could tell was that it would fetch a nice price, or perhaps as a weapon he could use himself.

The other man shuffled by him, going forward into a stone tower. He finished a dithering hollow before it could even wake up and jogged up a winding staircase. Patches made sure to stay close behind. "No my friend, take a left. You'll avoid an ambush." The man nodded and went towards the left, through a doorway. There was walkway that went towards another tower and he took tentative steps along it. "It's broken here." He called behind himself. "How do we cross?" Patches never answered his question. He slammed the butt of his spear into the back of his neck. As he fell forward, stunned, Patches swept his feet from underneath him, tripping him over the edge and down to the base of the tower. He didn't fall far, but he landed on his back, and stayed there. "Sorry friend." Patches called. "But business is business."

"You little…" The man wheezed from below. "I'll skin you for this…"

Patches then laughed and cocked his eyebrow at him below. "No, I don't think so." He paused. "You're not telekinetic are you?" Patches chuckled again.

"You're a damned hyena, aren't you?" He pulled his crossbow of his belt and fired back up at the bridge, the only shot he reckoned he'd be able to get away. Patches was still laughing when the quarrel took him in the throat. He fell back, dead in a matter of second, spitting blood at the last. If anyone had been able to inspect his corpse, they may have been able to see a burning circle upon his eye. Alas, no one came. Who would spare effort for the dead?

* * *

Patches waited by the church's entrance. Churches were one of Patches least favourite places, but perhaps the longer he stayed, the longer he could piss on holy ground. His last victim was banging fruitlessly on the gate he had just shut in front of his face, still hoping that Patches would come back and rescue him even as the hollow's longsword ripped into his back. Patches regarded the archway with disgust. The gleaming white wall had long since faded, and vegetation has eaten its way through the mortar. Not the most impressive structure to be sure, all the better to desecrate.

He stretched his shield arm as it was getting tired. The first thing he did after his first death was get a decent shield. No pesky archer was going to take pot shots at him when he was behind this. Patches wasn't prepared to make the same mistake twice.

There was a crash to his right when another undead in gold armour strode into the church's courtyard. There were splatters of blood sprayed across his breastplate, and he held two shotels. And he looked angry. _Better be careful with this one, _Patchesthought to himself. "Hello friend." He sang cheerfully. "This church is full of foes. Dangerous to go alone."

* * *

**Everyone but Patches is an non cannon character of my own making.**

**And that is why Trusty Patches hates clerics. Hope you like.**

**Next chapter will be Xanthous King Jeremiah, a very vague character if there ever was one. I hope I can make it work. **


	15. The Yellow King

_A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles-Christopher Reeve_

The utter darkness was finally pierced by a light that started like a thin blade and then edged outwards, until it was the shape of the tunnel. It was hot down here, and Jeremiah didn't touch the walls for fear of burning his hand. The silhouette of a portcullis stood against the light at the end of the tunnel casting shadows against an already gloomy backdrop. A light at the end of a tunnel usually meant salvation, hope. Yet in this sick and twisted reality that Jeremiah was living, it meant only death, suffering and humiliation, with some spite and loathing thrown in for good measure. He would bleed today and an entire city would laugh.

He reached the portcullis; black steel pockmarked with red rust and red blood. The sand beneath his feet soaked up the stains, but when gallons of the stuff was poured on it, it couldn't keep absorbing it. The light hurt his eyes for a second until he adjusted. The portcullis lifted and the humidity dissipated but the heat did not. A wall of noise hit him and he stepped into the circle of doom. High walls were all around and sand was all below him, people cheering and booing from rows and rows of seats. They were safe behind their high walls, while Jeremiah had to endure his fate in the pit.

"And up steps our long time veteran. Marking the end of his sixth year in the arena, Jeremiah, the Pit Fiend!" A voice called from high in the seating, and the crowd went wild. He was called the Pit Fiend for his tenacity and unwillingness to fall, and he was the longest lasting fighter currently in the arena. Jeremiah prepared his weapons, one in each hand. A falcata was in his right, a sort of long bladed kukri while a whip was in his left. How sickeningly ironic, that the very weapon he was beaten with was what he used in the pit. The sun was hot and heavy today, and sat above the door opposite him. He had to put a hand over his eyes to block it out.

The law of the land stated that after a slave's sixth year in the pit, he was granted freedom and a gold for every opponent he had killed. Very few lived that long. Those that did died in their last fight. A freed slave was bad for business, better to kill them, collect the bets and let him die a glorious hero to the delight of the crowd. "You've seen him fight fast men, strong men, and all manner of beast." Jeremiah nearly sniggered at beasts. The 'beasts' were terribly worn creatures, bent and broken from their traumatic capture and poor treatment. All Jeremiah needed to do was crack his whip and they had cowered and basically thrown themselves at his feet when they heard the unmistakable sound. The lined scars along their backs still burned in his mind, a pattern that matched his own, and he had slit their throats all the same, to rapturous applause.

"But we've got a surprise for Jeremiah. Yes, back from war and battle hardened, they're itching for bloodshed, it is the Sons of the Sword!" The crows were ecstatic at the mention of their names. The Sons of the Sword were war heroes, soldiers who had, if the tales were true, single-handedly slain legions of foes and turned battles at the mere sound of their arrival. Apparently, now six of them, one for each of years, were stepping out of the opposite gate to kill him. Upon closer inspection, Jeremiah saw that they were slaves as well. Poor sods who were perhaps tougher and stronger than their friends and had been thrown to battle him. However inexperienced they may be, they were far better equipped, and two were mounted upon horses. One does not impersonate the Sons of the Sword while being a lackwit in a fight.

He kept the whip coiled around his hand so that they wouldn't be able to judge his range. He twirled the falcata a few times, flexing his wrist for the fight ahead. He never acknowledged the crowds when he fought. It was bad enough he was forced to fight, it was worse that hundreds had gathered to see him dismembered and he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of being a crowd pleasing performer. He would go in, get his job done, and walk out. It almost felt like he was spiting all of them when he survived in the end and turned his back to the crowd, walking back through the tunnel without so much as a bow. How delicious it would be if he lived now, when they all come to see him fall.

The arena today was nearly all flat sand, with only a rock formation in the centre: two triangular pillars, one twenty feet with an almost flat path-like but around the centre, with a crude bridge of logs roped together that connected to the other pillar, nearly ten feet tall and with enough space for four men at the top. They hadn't given him much to work with. Worse yet, the sun was facing towards him.

The trumpet rang out around the stadia to signify the start of proceedings, a low growl that acted as a signature on Jeremiah's death warrant. The six opponents broke formation immediately and charged at him, the mounted men closing the gap between him quickly. One lowered his lance in anticipation while the other twirled a flail around his head, the spiked ball becoming a blurred circle of iron. Jeremiah bolted for the centre, even though he knew he could never get there before the horses.

The lancer got close to him first, the sharpened edge aimed straight for his midriff. The man was clearly not a regular cavalier, he had put his lance down far too early and Jeremiah was able to sidestep the polearm. Once he had passed the pointed end, the lance presented no threat to him. He reached up with his falcata and hooked the curved end under his opponents shoulder guard. With a yank, he threw the rider from his horse which kept on galloping. The man landed square on his back and all the air knocked out of him. Jeremiah turned to face the other charger, the flail getting dangerously close to his body. Jeremiah decided to make the horse his unconscious ally. He stood right in front of it, and curled into a ball. While the rider's intention may have been to knock his block off, the horse was not of this disposition. It stepped around him through a combination of luck and gut instinct, using the horse as a shield while the rider couldn't hit him while he was under his charge. Jeremiah jumped up after the steed had passed and struck out with his whip, lashing it around the rider's throat and pulling him back. He also hit the ground with a thud.

The other rider was now on his feet, coughing, but moving to Jeremiah all the same. Jeremiah kept a hold of the whip, constricting it around the other fighter's throat while he dealt with this man. He let out a wild strike that Jeremiah leant aside from, flicking his falcata towards him only for it bounced off his vambrace. He left a trailing leg as he stepped aside which the rider fell over, landing face first, again on the ground. Jeremiah pushed the blade down the man's spine, paralysing him to bleed out in the ground. The one held in the whip had managed to untangle himself and was reaching for his weapon. Jeremiah dashed forward and sliced behind his legs, knocking him down to draw the edge against his throat.

The other four men were nearly within melee distance, and Jeremiah didn't like being out in the open. He sprinted for the rocks in the centre, curving the path to avoid the charging warriors. He was able to reach the rocks before them, due to wearing only leather, and didn't hesitate in climbing up them to try and create a bottle neck. A spear grazed his cheek and he made his way to the bridge and landed in the sand on the other side. If he had been a finger width closer it would have come through the side of his face. Jeremiah thanked whatever guardian angel, or sadistic devil, was watching over him.

One of the gladiators had managed to calm one of the horses and send it hurtling towards Jeremiah with him aboard. He in turn launched a spear, but the unsteadiness of the horse resulted in a huge overthrow as he leant back. Jeremiah waited for the rider to run under the wooden bridge. Just as the other men were coming towards him he jumped from the swaying connector as the horseman passed under it. He managed to hook an arm around the rider as he landed, and push an elbow against his head, tilting it at a forty five degree angle. The rider hit the floor in this uncomfortable position, with Jeremiah still grappling him as there was a thick crunch. The weight above and below him had snapped his neck upon impact with the ground and another limp yet bloodless corpse lay in the sand. _Half way done and we've barely even started, _Jeremiah thought. _They are putting up a poor show. _

But he was now on the ground, exposed and totally open to three heavily armed warriors who probably now had fewer friends at dinner. He braced himself as they walked towards him, coming from three sides. Jeremiah gave a lash of his whip across the hand of the nearest one, glad to see his sword spin away as he brought his hand up in pain. The others took this as an opportunity to move forward as a heavy double sided axe came dangerously close to his head, and a short gladius nearly punctured his side. Jeremiah tried to put distance between them, whirling his whip round to try to keep them at bay. It dismayed them for a moment, but not until they realised that the hardened leather was nothing against their metal breastplates. It turned into a dangerous game of cat and mouse, with Jeremiah dodging away as they came at him, the previously disarmed man now pursuing him as well.

Jeremiah tried to disarm them again but they fought cautiously to prevent a repeat of the previous mishap. He instead aimed for their legs, wrapping the whip round one of them and yanking him to the ground. The axe came at him and he lent right, as the keen blade sheared fabric on his left shoulder. The heavy axe took a moment to wind up and Jeremiah took his opportunity to slip in and grab him under the arm pit. A sword came his way, but instead hit his new human shield, bouncing off the steel breastplate. Jeremiah kicked his legs out from under him and slit his throat with the falcata. Two swords came at him again, relentlessly. His tiredness was beginning to show and he was unable to avoid a fairly deep cut along his thigh. Jeremiah slipped backwards and fell to one knee. And downwards cut came towards him and he blocked it with the falcata. He whipped at the other attacker to no avail as it bounced off metal. The other swordsman repeated his blow, and Jeremiah needed to use both hands to stop from being cut down. He was now completely exposed to a killing blow from the other gladiator.

His sword glinted in the sunlight as he raised it high above his head, the point trained on his unguarded shoulder. The blade would pierce just next to his neck, severing an artery and leaving him to die within seconds. Jeremiah instinctively tensed up, although that somehow made it feel worse, like he had already been stabbed, that slight dizziness that came before a blow that made him shut his eyes and grit his teeth as he was already imagining what the pain would be like. As he prepared himself for death, the sand beneath his feet slipped and flew out from underneath him. With a sword pressing down on his own steel he fell on his back while another blade was in mid thrust. The gladiator pressing on him fell with him, landing on his chest and pinning him to the floor. The other fighter had carried on with his own attack, and the blade whistled through the air. It landed where Jeremiah's neck would have been, instead going through empty space until it reached Jeremiah's foot. The point drove down through leather sandals and flesh and sand, all the way to the hilt. A raspy scream echoed around the stadium along with gasps from the crowd.

A slip, a dumb luck miracle had given Jeremiah another attempt at life. The man on top of him was reaching for his dropped sword when Jeremiah drove his falcata through his throat. He pushed the body away as the sword was yanked out of his foot with a spurt of blood. He let out a short cry as he scrambled away while the other man clumsily scrambled over the corpse. He flicked his forearm and the falcata spun towards his attacker. The gladiator raised his sword to parry the blow; the curved sword spun round it, striking him in the hand but losing a lot of the momentum. He dropped his sword as Jeremiah sprang forward to initiate a brawl in a brawl upon the shimmering earth. It was bloody and brutal, each man giving as much as they gave, and soon their faces were more blood than skin. Finally, Jeremiah slogged the last few punches as his opponent was becoming less and less active and it felt very much like he was hammering at a corpse.

The crowd became a blur as he faced them and their noise was just a flat sound. He looked up towards the sun until it hurt his eyes and he shut them. There was nothing but blackness then and he felt so tired that he just let the void embrace him. He didn't even feel hitting the ground.

* * *

The light felt like a sharp blade through his eyes. It took half a minute of careful squinting until he adjusted to being able to see again. He tried to sit up, too quickly, and felt the blood rush to his head. Dark motes danced along his eyes and he began to feel heavy and taste blood in his nose and his head hit the pillow like a sack of bricks. He took a few deep breaths before he tried again. This time he successfully lifted himself, leaning against the back of the bed. He surveyed the room around him.

It was a mostly bland, small room with colourless walls and minimalist dark wood furniture neatly placed along walls. There was only the bed he was sitting in, a bedside table and a desk high with papers and glass bottles in the other corner. There was a washbasin and a small mirror upon the table to his side. He managed to steal a glance at his face, and wasn't encouraged by the deep set eyes a marbled skin that stared back at him. It was only now he noticed the man in the corner, holding a bottle of liquid to the light. He seemed so small and ordinary that he blended in with the small and ordinary objects in the room, almost a part of the room itself. Jeremiah coughed involuntarily from the tightness in his chest and he felt his ribs shudder and press against his bruises. He thought it was only quiet, but the man nearly jumped out of skin.

He turned to Jeremiah. His face was almost exactly how Jeremiah imagined it, bland and ordinary. "Oh…you're awake…already." He mused, as though he was talking to himself, a nervous smile playing on his lips. "Where am I, and who are you?"

The man took a single step towards him. "You are being treated my friend. You're injuries were extensive. This is my er…infirmary." Jeremiah stood up, slowly to avoid any pain. He looked out the window and sure enough he could see the city. The coliseum was some distance away. "Why wasn't I treated at the arena's beds?" He asked with one eyebrow cocked. "I've never known a combatant to be treated outside of the arena's care facilities."

The man licked his lips and seemed to search for an answer. "Well, you're nothing if not exceptional Jeremiah. And an exceptional entertainer deserves exceptional care." He looked at the bottle as if he had just remembered he was holding it. He held it out to Jeremiah. "A healing draught I've been concocting." He motioned for Jeremiah to take it. Jeremiah took it cautiously and sniffed at it. It was odourless and clear. That was what alerted him first. Medicine rarely tried to disguise itself. The next was the sound of a bell out of the window. It signalled the curfew, when all but a few fires in the city had to be extinguished. And it sounded close. The bell tower was near the east wall, the lower part of the city at the base of a hill.

"This is Traitor's Walk." Jeremiah stated. Traitor's Walk was the street that ran from the centre to the eastern gate. The further you went down it, the poorer the populace got. Taverns, brothels and pot shops were common, but it wasn't the kind of place a physician would set up, a trade that should be alongside moneylenders and tailors. "And this is no infirmary. What is this place really, and why am I here?" He took a step towards the man, who coincidentally took a step back.

"Please, my friend, you're overthinking this. There are many of the weak and sick here, I treat them. I think you're injuries have taken leave of your senses. I'll make you some lemon tea, calm you down. Please, drink your medicine." He made for the door put Jeremiah closed the gap between them frighteningly quickly for a wounded man. He put his arm on the door.

"The people here are weak and sick because they are poor." He growled, his throat dry all of a sudden. He towered over the other man by nearly a foot. "They cannot afford your services. Last time, why am I really here?" The small man backed away to the desk. He let out a small 'please' as of to begin his whole spiel again. Jeremiah read his movement for the long, curved scalpel like a book and caught his hand in mid-air as the small man tried to bring it down on him. Jeremiah twisted his wrist and then flipped the man over his shoulder. A spasm of pain shot through his whole body but he ignored it and put his heel on the man's back. "The truth, and I don't carve your lungs out. Now, why am I here?"

The small man coughed and whimpered. "Please, I was only obeying! The masters, they tell me, I obey. They said you had to die, and to make it seem like it happened at the surgeon's bed, away from the masses. I was toss you in the river, that's all I know, please! I only obey…I only obey…" He whined through tears. Jeremiah knelt down beside him and smacked him on the back of the head with the blunt of the scalpel, letting his limp body fall to the floor. So the nobles truly wanted no slave free. The people who had whipped him, beaten him, sent him to die for six years had also decided to take away his salvation at the last. And then he would be disposed of and forgotten about so no martyr could be made of him. The gallant slave who died after defeating all challengers. No, they couldn't even give him a dignified death or a dignified funeral.

Jeremiah grabbed what he could from the room. He was able to find his fighting apparel, but his weapons were nowhere to be seen. He stormed out of the house and found himself on Traitor's Walk, the buildings close and cramped, almost leaning into each other over the street. Towards the centre poor freedmen lived, but the grand majority of its residents where slaves. There were guards nearly every twenty metres, either a pair of freedmen or slaves taken as boys and trained to show no remorse to those of their class. The guards either had nodachis or glaives and hardened black leather sleeveless breastplates. Seeing them standing there, beating his fellow slaves to send them scurrying into their homes burned every fibre in his body.

A few of them had recognised him as he emerged into the twilight. 'Jeremiah' they whispered at first, and then cried, louder, as this god amongst them had just walked into their lives. His most recent fight had been advertised everywhere and his face was on the walls of many houses. The chains on their necks rattled as they called to him. One little girl came up to him and hugged his leg. He noticed the harsh scar of a whip on her cheek, which she was now nuzzling against his thigh. "Jeremiah!" Someone shouted. "They sent soldiers against him and still he cut them down." The gathered crowd had by now alerted the guards, and a few of them were walking casually over towards him, irked that their break had been disturbed but not annoyed enough that they were prepared to put effort into it. "I heard he killed twenty men in one bout."

"I heard he killed a hundred men at once!"

"He slew a mounted champion! I was with Noble Trizzak, and I saw it with my own eyes, I swear it!"

"I heard he slew ten mounted champions!"

"He's the best slave fighter in the arena."

"Nay, he's the best fighter in the city! And he's here, among us!"

He was an idol to these people. A humble slave who refused to be bent by his master's challenges. One of them, who had earnt freedom through the strength of his arm alone. He was a symbol, someone they could rally behind and aspire to be. He heard a guard's footsteps behind him and turned to see the handle of his nodachi aimed for his face. A quick jab to knock him out and shut him up, then the guard could go back to the fire. He hadn't recognised Jeremiah in the half light, the torch on the wall facing towards the slaves and away from the guard. He ducked under the lazy jab and punched him in the throat. As he reeled away, Jeremiah snatched his weapon and swung the long bladed curved sword in one motion. It ripped through his chest and sent him sprawling onto the cobblestoned ground. The slaves gasped as one and all of a sudden there were three more guards upon him. Jeremiah was a whirlwind fuelled by hatred, and his wrath was a mighty thing to behold.

A few slaves rushed to help him as the other soldiers on the street realised the bloodshed, but most stood bewildered by the violence before them. Men hid in the shadows and women hugged their children. When Jeremiah was killed, and surely he would be, they would all be punished for merely being here, most likely killed in a public display. The crime of striking a free man was the highest of heresies, never mind killing one. But Jeremiah kept fighting, even as he tore old wounds and hobbled on his bandaged foot and eventually all opponents fell before him. He had earned a minute's respite, and he used it well. He told those who had helped him to wear the guard's uniforms and take their weapons. Then he stood on some stacked crates and addresses the slaves who had gathered, nearly all of them leaving their homes to check the sounds in the beginning of the night.

"Fellow slaves." He cried. "I am Jeremiah, the Pit Fiend. I stand before you today, a veteran of innumerable duels. I won my freedom, by every law of this land, and yet they have still denied it to me. They have tried to kill me for the crime of a slave trying to be free. They have built this city on the backs of slaves, on the crushed bones and blood of your ancestors. Why should they own what we have built? Why should you girls be taken to work in the pleasure houses, your boys taken and taught to despise you? Why should your child die to the whim of some rich man, having never had the taste of being free? Would you deny them that? There are five slaves for every Noble in this city. And finally the spark has been set to start the blaze. Ignore the curfew bell and keep your hearth's burning. For tonight, we set this city alight!"

* * *

The swamp's pungent aura could be smelt even here, far below the oozing mire that had emitted its stranglehold at the foot of the walls of Lordran. He had heard that great power could be found amongst the Witches of Izalith, that there fire magic was a jealously guarded secret that had caused the dragons themselves to tremble at the sense of their heat. Alas, Jeremiah only found a ruined city and an infested settlement that was the very embodiment of filth and despair. He had come to the land of the gods in search of more power, a power that would allow him to lead his people against the trials ahead. If the tales of the Witch's fire was true, he would be able to lay waste to entire armies, and then his new kingdom would be allowed to grow and flourish without the threat of meddling foreigners. He had held out hope until his discovery of the art of fire magic being lost along with the crumble of Izalith, and that his journey had been a fruitless waste.

Until he stumbled upon pyromancy. Although weaker, it was relatively easy to control and learn. Not all the Witch's relics were gone, and it seemed that pyromancy was a new creation that fed off the old fire magics, but lessened somehow. Nonetheless, Jeremiah was glad to be in possession of such tools as these, with which he would ensure no man would dare challenge him. But this place of death and defilement had weakened him. He could feel it within himself, a feeling gnawing at him, nibbling at the edges of his mind. There were times when he forgot his own name and times when he could recall places he had never even seen. The skin on his shoulder had turned an unhealthy black; on occasion flakes would fall off and be replaced with bloody and raw flesh until the skin regrew and the cycle repeated itself.

He half stumbled, half scrambled out the webbed entrance and tumbled down the soft and spongey surface. A huge creature with a rock extended above its head turned to face him. Jeremiah didn't even give it a chance to react as he melted its flesh away and swallowed its bones in lava, watching the fireball's remains slip away into the swamp. Two more of the berserkers turned to face him, one letting out a guttural roar and spewing spittle ahead of itself. Jeremiah relaxed and pictured in his mind the spell he wanted, guided by his heart and instinct. Great jets of flames exploded out of the ground, incinerating the beasts where they stood, leaving pools of magma to finish them off. Jeremiah flung his head back and laughed a manic cry, flinging bolts of flames all around himself. He gradually slowed, realising what he was doing and coming to his senses. He stared at his hands in shock and took a deep breath, scratching away an itch on his head.

He placed a soothing hand on his shoulder, without thinking, and recoiled at what he felt. The skin was soft and wet, like when a scab is removed too early. He craned his neck and was horrified to see three white worms wriggling they're way in his flesh. He grabbed one and tried to yank it out, but it seemed jammed inside of him. There was no pain, or any feeling at all, yet he thrashed away at his shoulder. He even tried to burn it off with his pyromancy glove, but it only hurt the skin around it.

In shock, Jeremiah tried to make his way back to the shelter of the cave. He limbs felt heavy and his vision blurry, and eventually he realised he was on his knees. There was an immense pain in his skull and he threw himself forward, howling in pain to asensation he had never felt before. He nearly drowned himself in the toxic mud as he struggled. When he reached up and felt the side of his face, drowning didn't seem so bad.

* * *

His choice of clothing hid the worst of his injuries. Funnily, it distracted attention from himself in a way most people couldn't imagine. The head piece was needed to accommodate the parasite that now nestled itself above him skull; he couldn't exactly lead a country with a fleshy egg acting as a second head. What would his people think when they turned to him and saw a monster, or when his enemies saw him and mocked him or turned allies against him. Better they think him mysterious and eccentric than inhuman. The yellow fabric was so bright that he could have been seen from leagues away, and it nearly blinded those around him. Hardly subtle. Yet when people walked away and remembered, they only saw the yellow, not his demeanour or his voice or even his words. Their minds were clouded with xanthous.

That was what the envoys before had called him. 'King in Yellow' they had sneered at him, even as he sat above them. They tried to demean him and insult him, yet all they did was fuel his fire, prove that the other nations were not happy with the breakaway state of escaped slaves. Their former masters threatened and blustered and demanded (demanded!) obedience and that they grovel at their feet. They may move their armies to his borders, but they couldn't stop them now. They were too many, and zealous at that, ready to defend their new found freedom to the death and beyond. Jeremiah had become a legendary name at the helm of his new kingdom, known all the way to the Far East as a man who should not be crossed, who would defend his homeland fiercely and cared not for pomp and ceremony nut prepared to swear in the fields and break his back at the forge just like his subjects.

Heads adorned spikes at the gate of the keep that led to the hall where he held court. It seemed a bit gruesome to him, until he remembered the bodies that those heads had belonged to. _Nothing is too good for the likes of you, _he reminded them as he made his way to the modest throne where he listened to the plights of his people and the demands of foreign emissaries. He smelt the sickening stench of burning flesh, a horrid reminder of a punishment he had been far too eager in dishing out. When he thought back, he couldn't believe that he had actually given the order, or even done it himself, but scorched bodies tell no lies. He pushed it to the back of his mind. _I am the one in control, _he convinced himself.

There were several minor issues to attend to, the typical looting and fields going unattended. His interest only piqued when an emissary from Carim entered his hall. They exchanged pleasantries before the ambassador spoke his purpose. "The Earl of Carim asks that you remove your forces from your northern border, so that we can be sure of no threat of attack." He said with an air of confidence. Jeremiah furrowed his brow. "And what attack would that be? We are a nation of freed slaves, we are trying to survive not conquer. Those soldiers are there for defence and defence only. They will not step a foot across the border." Soldiers was a generous word for his poorly equipped and equally poorly trained militia.

"I hope you will forgive us when we don't simply take your word for it. The people of Carim are wary and distrusting by nature. And the Whistling Wood is a highly disputed region." He seemed to leer at him when he said the words.

"Past rulers here would have taken an executioners axe if a king were insulted upon his throne. I can assure you, there is no threat to Carim. You can believe me or not, but those troops do not budge an inch." Jeremiah spoke with the firmness he had gotten used to of late.

The ambassador's expression was of open hostility. "You fool! The Earl of Carim is not used to being defied, and we could crush you in one swift stroke. He has commanded-"

"We are done with commands!" Jeremiah angrily got to his feet. "My people have taken centuries of commands, and I will not permit some foreign ruler to dictate them! Choose your next words carefully, for you are walking on quicksand here."

The ambassador prepared to say something but decided against it and angrily stormed from the room. _Hold your tongue _Jeremiah thought, _or gods help you. _The ambassador made it to the door. "You have not heard the last of Carim!" He spat back at Jeremiah. "We'll be marching on your corpses soon enough. I tell you, this is not over!"

"I'm afraid it is." Jeremiah retorted, and motioned to his guards. They seized the ambassador and his escort and dragged them from the hall kicking and screaming and it was over as suddenly as it had begun. Jeremiah prayed the rest of the day went smoothly or the ambassador may be leaving a few inches shorter. He managed to struggle through until the last dignitary.

A retinue of knights under a blue banner. They told him where they were from and what they wanted but Jeremiah forgot in an instant. He felt extremely tired all of a sudden. He was barely listening to their words, until his ears pricked at 'implore'. "Implore!" He cried and made his way towards the knights. "A fancy word for order. No one orders us here. You hear me! NONE CAN COMMAND US!"

The knights stood back shocked and unable to speak. One eventually stepped forward and began to apologise and protest but Jeremiah had already reached them. "I will burn you all if I have to!" He howled at them. "Every last one, until you are dust at my feet!" Their ashes were swept away and their bodies piled with the rest.

It did not take long for a response to come, a few days, and it fell hard. No ruler wants an insane warlord at the helm of a zealous nation and the greatest of them all had taken action. A regiment of silver knights had come under a banner of gold and white. They stood motionless outside the city while five of them were let in to treat with the king. Jeremiah eyes felt heavy and he would have looked old and haggard had they been able to see his face. He felt sick, not just in body but mind also, and it was all he could do to simply sit still. Yet inside he was fighting a raging battle, and it burned away at him as his fire burned away at others. He could find solace in nothing, every action was a constant struggle no matter how small and his hands shook near constantly.

Out of the five before him a great knight in azure stepped forward. "Lord Gwyn has called for thine arrest Jeremiah. Thou canst come peacefully with us or thou can duel me here. Life or death, it is your choice to make." Jeremiah struggled to sit up. One part wept inside himself, begging to be taken away, to be helped. _Don't you see! _A voice hissed in his head. _He threatened you! He is a danger to you and all you hold dear. Cleanse his wrongs in flame, burn his feeble flesh away. _

Jeremiah spoke no words. He only stood and felt the flames rise in his hand. He flung it with all his might, but only saw it bounce of the knight's giant shield. He managed to speak. "Kill them." He rasped. "Kill them all!" His guards flung themselves at the knights, spears flashing and arrows flying. The azure knight didn't even let a blow touch his armour, deftly avoiding each attempt on his person and swinging his mighty greatsword like it were only a stick. He effortlessly sliced through steel and sinew, painting only in red. All of a sudden he leapt at Jeremiah, the point aimed right at his throat. Jeremiah managed to get away and pull out the spiked whip he kept at his side. He lashed out venomously but did not wait to see its results. He realised he was fleeing, running for the back room so he could escape the castle, an act the old Jeremiah would have scorned.

He crashed through the door that led to a courtyard behind the main keep. There were always guards here, plenty of them and they would buy him time. But the square was empty. Only then did he notice the limp figures in the shadows. He focused on them and saw gaping wounds cut deep or poisonous hues on the skin. He saw the flash of gold out of the corner of his eye and flung himself away. The blade was on him in an instant, the point pressed against his chin. Black, lifeless eyes stared back amidst a pale face, no, a mask. He brought his hand up and scorched the assassin's arm with his pyromancy glove. He heard a woman's scream and rolled away and she swung her other dagger, too late. She patted at the flames viscously as Jeremiah smiled to himself a prepared a firestorm. A hand touched his shoulder and he saw one of his men, limping. "Your grace…" He managed. Jeremiah batted him away, overcome with rage and scorched him where he stood.

They found him on his knees, crying, clawing at himself. The azure knight and the dark assassin, edged closer towards him. He turned to them and grabbed the knight's cape, shaking and letting out short ragged breaths. "Please…" He whispered. "…Somewhere where I can't hurt them…" With that he fell unconscious at his feet.

**Exams are over and I have recovered the life they sucked out of me. Now that I have nothing but free time for a bit, the chapter turnover rate should dramatically increase. All I can say is thank you if you're reading this story after I spent two months not writing it, and sticking with me. I'll try and make it up to you.**

**Seath the Scaleless next.**


	16. The Primordial Scholar

_Be nice to nerds. Chances are you'll end up working for one-Bill Gates_

Thin mist ran over the ground in the same manner that snakes slither their way along it. The ground itself was an odd mixture of sand and soil, loose with pebbles and pockets of air. A white serpent brushed over the ground perpendicular to its orientation, followed by two of its brothers. They moved back and forth, wagging their heads slowly but rhythmically. The base of these pointed snakes remained staunchly attached to an abdomen of the same shade. As this body continued upwards, a dragon was there, plain for all to see, but wrong in many ways. Its eyes were puckered pink holes, its skin lacking any scales. Its wings were soft and dainty were a dragon's was strong and firm, a bright purple with spots of blue, and two tendrils fell from its head just above the jaw, quivering in the cold air, while his horns were blunt and thin, curved like a wave.

Seath the Scaleless sat apart from his brothers, the bastard and runt of the dragon brood. He was not shunned, for the dragons did not know how to convey or even realise such though, but Seath felt more comfortable away from those who were the polar opposite of him. The dragons seemed to understand pain and fear (mostly on inflicting it), and many natural instincts found in animals, but were ultimately content to live a life of limbo, keeping the world a grey waste.

Seath understood things, such as development and progress and that using these things could break him out of the numbing neutrality of this colourless world. He spent much of his time thinking, for that was all Seath was able to do beneath the mighty archtrees, think and ponder, wonder and theorise. He thought of nearly everything, from biology to philosophy to his own unexplained and seemingly impossible existence.

And yet he was wholly unsatisfied that he could not apply his thoughts to anything more meaningful than the silent ramblings of an outcast dragon. Seath had resigned himself to a life of misery until he surely died for his lack of scales, content with little and taking joy in even less. Such was his way until the pygmies came.

He found them beneath the earth, tiny things who scrabbled about on two legs. It was the happiest time of his life, to observe, or rather to listen to, these strange bipedal creatures. At first he thought them all the same, but soon he could discern slight differences; the weight of their footsteps, the number they travelled in, their scents and their warmth. He had felt the construction of their crafts through the soil, heavy hammering and slow heaving. He imagined them building shelters and constructing tools, working on stone buildings in the chasms below.

And yet he could not have any interaction with them. His brethren had blocked them from the surface, seeing them a threat to the balance of neutrality. They were allowed to live below the world, but any caught above would be offered no quarter. Seath had wondered many times if he could offer them something, a deal, that would somehow get them to the surface so he could interact further. Yet he concluded, after exhausting all other theories as he did in that cold, scientific, analytical way, that the Everlasting Dragons would have to be removed. With the Primordial Crystal in place, Seath was not aware of any methods that could be used to kill them. If their scales were somehow damaged, they would simply reform promptly. Either the scales would have to be bypassed or obliterated.

While the dragons may not have any concept of progress, Seath had no concept of loyalty or friendship. Organisms were tools and specimens, useful only to further advance knowledge. He had no qualms over betraying the dragons, just as he had no qualms with keeping the pygmies below if it served his purpose. Alas, it did not serve his purpose. And perhaps he was the only one who could change that. All he needed was a pygmy brazen or foolish enough to come above, and then perhaps, finally, the world may begin to move forward.

* * *

Screams bounced off the walls throughout his halls, high pitched wails of anguish and torture. The woman was tied down by her wrists and ankles, thick leather straps that bit into her flesh as she struggled. Apart from a single bandage that encompasses her waist she was completely naked. Two channelers overshadowed, great black figures that blocked the sterile lighting cast upon her. The channelers went about their work unabated by the woman's pleas, unsullied by her ear piercing shrieks. First they checked her over, ensuring every part of the specimen was fit for use. She had managed to cut herself prior to her examination, thus the reason for the bandage. Once they were satisfied, they begun the experimentation. The table next to them was lined with scalpels and surgical tools, as well as crystallised powders, brightly coloured liquids and a white foam that hissed vapour constantly.

The process lasted little over an hour and by the time they were done the girl shone like a crystal lizard. They were forced to remove a limb that was causing complications, and that in itself had given more noteworthy information. She ended the ordeal barely conscious and a left arm worse off, unable to open her eyes further than half way and constantly drooling from the corner of her mouth. She was freed from her constraints and unceremoniously slung over the shoulder of one of the channelers, being spirited away back to the cells.

Seath saw, or rather heard, the whole experiment and nodded his satisfaction. His new crystalline formulas seemed to be working consistently now, and a few other side projects were proving fruitful. The maidens were usually the most useful subjects, so pure of soul and innocent of mind. The combination of affinity with the gods and chasteness seemed to agree with his substances. And from a personal point of view, Seath had to admit the female form was the more aesthetically pleasing than that of male humans. He had at one point used prepubescent boys, and that had yielded interesting results. But that avenue had been quite exhausted and there was no further need to use resources on finished projects.

He slowly made his way away from the operating theatre to some specially furnished quarters. The narrow halls and low ceilings of the Archives meant that there were stark few places available for his presence, so he ensured the most important areas were accessible from the sky. It strained his stunted wings horribly, they were only really useful for gliding, but such was the price for knowledge. He reached a large door adorned in gold vines, the spaces filled with depictions of knights and castles. He edged it open slightly and found her sitting cross-legged with a book in her hands. She was surrounded by open tomes and novels strewn around where she was sitting. Like most of the Archives, her room also served as an extensive library.

She turned her head at the sound of him and her face lit up immediately. "Father!" She squealed and jumped to her feet. He winced as she spoke. _I wish you would stop calling me that_. He was no more capable of reproduction than any of the other dragons, and was no true father at all, just as she had no true mother. 'Creator' would be a more accurate title, but in the end if it made her happy he wasn't one to complain. She was an amalgamation of several different sources, a culmination of his knowledge of crystals and sorcery, a little divine blood and a protein base.

She charged into him and spread her arms out wide to hug his abdomen, her furry cloak tickling him slightly. He felt a little uneasy at her touch due to her potential for destruction, but put a hand on her shoulder all the same. She seemed to like when he did that. Her scythe lay in the corner, propped up against the wall. That was an unintended side effect, but one that he now realised was inevitable. It has formed from her own flesh and bone, a yearning of the power within her to break free. He dared not touch it, nor allow anyone else to do so. That was hers and hers alone to handle, for safety and at her increased erratic behaviour when parted from it.

She took a step back, her face still beaming. He took a moment to look around the mess that was her room. It was not fit to keep a child locked up in here but he daren't risk her discovery. At some point she would have to be allowed to run outside and experience fresh air, to meet other people but he couldn't think of a way to do it without the potential she may be taken away. There were many more observations he needed to make after all. But a smaller part of him knew he wouldn't enjoy parting her company for no reason other than he would miss her. It was the same part that silently prayed for all his subjects, that they would somehow remained unharmed for no other reason than he cared for their wellbeing and felt guilty for their situation. In the end, his thirst for knowledge was stronger.

"I wish you would visit more often." She chirped as she went to show him the book she was reading. "This one is the story of Little Luthran. He travelled the world challenging tyrants and arrogant warriors. They would always insult his size and brag about how they would crush him into the dirt. But Little Luthran had favour with gods and threw them all down with lightning." She flicked to one page where there was an illustration of Luthran before the Gates of Fire. He only nodded.

There was an uneasy silence for a second before he drew out a present he'd been meaning to give her. A little stuffed wolf with a crown on its head, fluffy and white. She gasped and smiled again, rushing over and grabbing the gift. "Oh thank you father! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!" She shot the words out like bolts from an avelyn. She hugged the toy and gave it a kiss. He knew she loved dolls and figurines. It was the least she deserved for being so patient and dutiful. She talked to him for a bit about unimportant things; Seath understood that it wasn't the subject matter that was important, but just the fact she had someone to talk to. He decided he would get her a companion of some sort if he could. They would never be allowed to leave the Archives of course, and that would strictly narrow a list of candidates, while forcing someone would be entirely counterproductive.

He finally bid her goodbye as she pretended her wolf was bounding up a mountainside. He closed her door as slowly and tenderly as he could. When he turned around, there a channeler waiting dutifully for him. There was always work to do. _No rest for the wicked. _

* * *

Even when the books were read to him, he felt the words filling every part of his mind. He stretched his legs, or what constituted for legs, and split some of the crystals that had accumulated on his front. The cracking sound was like a lightning spear fizzing through the sky. The books, this place, there was something unnatural about it all. Seath was very well the father of the unnatural, but it was something else here. These books were more than books, as if the authors had implanted a piece of themselves into their writings.

There was always more to be done he found, more projects to assume. But now, he forget them as soon as he did them, his notes seemed to slip through one ear and out of the other. He always knew the Archives had something other worldly about them, but it had never bothered him until recently. He always used to be able tell when the place was playing tricks on him, but now it became harder to separate fact from fiction. He had always been able to keep control.

He could trace it back to the loss of Priscilla. At first he hadn't believed it had impacted him much, especially a being so notorious for emotional sterilisation. Yet as time went on, he noticed himself becoming increasingly inefficient, like when an intoxicated person realised they are impaired but cannot prevent their clumsiness. The insanity of the Duke's Archives had latched onto this vulnerability, however small it may have been, and devoured like an unrelenting parasite. Doubt constantly gnawed him now, every decision he made was followed by a sense of unease where he had been so sure of everything before.

Duke Seath checked at the bright blue jewels on his abdomen. They crusted over him like a second layer of skin and he shattered ridges down them whenever he tried to move. Some seemed to grow from within him and pierce his skin as hair would on a human. He wished for a moment that he could shed these crystals as easily as the scales had slipped off his brother Kalameet when he fell into the Abyss. His experimentation with this pretty glass had certainly taken their toll. Ultimately, a toll he was happy to pay, for finally he had done something unheard of since the Age of Ancients.

Despite his obvious lack of scales, Seath had made himself immortal. The Primordial Crystal, which had been so stubborn and uncooperative, so unwilling to relinquish its secrets, had finally been unlocked and Seath was the maker of the key. Centuries of research had at last been put to good use, that now he had finally emanated the creatures that were so similar to him, but he felt so alienated from.

There were times when he could stare at the crystal for days on end, simply encapsulated by its shimmering beauty. It was only afterword when he felt slightly ashamed, that he had wasted so much precious time doing naught. However, time was no longer precious. Why should he worry for the passing of days that concerned only the mortals that scurried beneath his feet? He couldn't die now, he had all the time on existence for whatever he desired to do. Like sending that faith-blind fool of a bishop scurrying around chasing dead ends.

At first he was worried that his endeavours would gain too much publicity and he may be forced out, especially if the Church were to turn against him. But now he could tease that holier-than-thou warrior jumping at chances to expose him, leading wherever he pleases. What does he have to fear now? There was no lasting pain, there was no death. He was truly unstoppable now. And in that, there were oh so many possibilities…

* * *

**Sorry for the last month, I was lacking a lot of motivation and writer's block and yadda yadda yadda [insert excuses no one cares about]. I initially thought writing multiple stories would result on two mediocre stories instead of one good one, but I might release a new story alongside this one to keep things fresh and prevent long periods of stagnation. **

**A certain knight of Catarina to come next **


End file.
